


For the First Time and the Thousandth Time

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Closet Sex, Frottage, Ghost Sex, Ghosts, Halloween, Haunted Houses, Holmes Brothers, Love Confessions, M/M, Past Lives, Pining, Rimming, Second Chances, Shower Sex, Soulmates, Supernatural Elements, True Love, World War I, present day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-08-05 13:02:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16368149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: Injured in a mysterious shooting, Sherlock is sent to a safe house to recover while Mycroft tracks down his assailant. The house, hidden deep in the countryside, is old and drafty, and -- according to rumors -- haunted by a English solider wounded in World War 1. A series of strange events soon has Sherlock questioning his firm disbelief in the supernatural, past lives, and true love.





	1. Chapter 1

There is a bird outside the bedroom window, its chirping passing through the glass pane, seeping into Sherlock’s morning sleep. _Peep… peep… peep…_ The sound is incessant, annoying Sherlock with its relentless cheerfulness. He swims up from a murky dream, wanting to throw a slipper at the window to startle the bird away.

He pries his eyes open with difficulty, then pauses, squints, and spirals into confusion. This is not his bedroom. The walls are white, the bed too narrow, a boxy machine off to his side chirping steadily. He struggles to lift his head, a tangle of tubes and wires affixed to his body restricting his motion. A sudden bolt of pain shoots through his chest, causing him to gasp, knocking him back into his pillows. He grimaces, a rush of panic flooding his gut. Something is very, very wrong.

“Stay calm. You’re safe.”

Sherlock’s eyes fly open at the sound of the soothing voice. A face looms into focus, half covered with a blue surgical mask, but the keen gaze and sharp slope of the nose are unmistakably that of his brother.

“Where am I?” Sherlock croaks, his throat sore and parched.

“You’re in hospital. You’ve had surgery.”

Sherlock stares at Mycroft, grasping at fragmented memories — a bright light, muffled voices — but unable to stitch together the series of events that led to this antiseptic-smelling room. The pain in his chest comes in stabs and he wishes for merciful sleep to pull him under again.

“Lie still. The pain meds should be kicking in again any moment now.” Mycroft reassures him. “It’s on a timer.”

It isn’t long before the room starts to tilt, a familiar and welcome warmth filling Sherlock’s veins. His eyes grow heavy, but he needs to know one thing before he slips into unconsciousness again. “What happened?”

“A bullet nearly nicked your heart.” Mycroft’s voice is almost gentle. “Good thing they run small in our family.”

 

*******************

Sherlock is awake, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. The curtains are drawn and he doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep or whether it’s day or night. _Peep... peep… peep..._ The pulsing monitor reminds him why he’s here — the bullet in his chest.

He can’t remember all the details of what happened. His last memory was of stepping out of a cab… going where? It was night, a cold rain had left puddles that reflected wavy streaks of neon light… a bar? Restaurant? He’d spoken to someone, then left, stepping out the back way into an alley, wrinkling his nose at the overwhelming odor of trash bins and piss. He turned at a sudden sound, then there was a flash of light, searing pain, blackness.

His thoughts are swept away when the door sighs open and Mycroft enters, his footsteps nearly silent. His catlike movements always make Sherlock suspect Mycroft has had very specific training in his past, and that he’s much better at legwork than he lets on. He just can’t be arsed to go out into the field these days.

Mycroft is clutching a paper cup of coffee and pauses by the end of the bed to take a cautious sip. The twist of disgust that passes over his face causes Sherlock’s mouth to curve up slightly.

“You should’ve had the tea,” Sherlock advises weakly.

Mycroft glances up, surprised to see him awake, then looks ruefully back at his cup. “I doubt I could tell the difference.” He takes another resigned sip and walks over to a chair, sliding it closer to the bed. He sits and folds one leg neatly over the other. “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock considers the question. “Like shit.”

Mycroft smirks. “The doctors say you’re recovering well. Everything went very smoothly. You’re very lucky.”

Sherlock pictures his chest covered in blood, his body limp on the operating table, cut open, vulnerable. “Lucky” hardly seems like an appropriate word. He doesn’t like thinking about it, doesn’t like being helpless like this. He’s already sick of tubes and needles, the lack of privacy. “How much longer are they keeping me here?”

“A week, maybe more. It all depends on how things go.”

Sherlock frowns, missing his own bed, his own clothes. “I want to go back to my flat.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Not right away.” Mycroft warms his hands around his cup. “I’ve made other arrangements.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “What do you mean?”

Mycroft clears his throat, stalling. “You’ll be staying at a safe house. We still don’t know who did this. Until we catch him or her, you need to be kept out of sight.”

Sherlock rolls his head to the side. “Oh, _fuck.”_

“It’s necessary. I’ve hired a nurse to stay with you for your daily care.”

“Fuck.”

“What else would you suggest?” Mycroft asks in his most reasonable tone. “Shall we set you free like this, weak as a newborn kitten? You’d be torn to shreds in no time.”

Sherlock fixes Mycroft with a withering gaze. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Mummy would have my hide. So it’s in my best interest to see that you’re kept safe.”

Sherlock exhales, grudgingly accepting his fate. “Fine. Just where is this top secret house?”

“It’s remote. In the countryside.”

“Christ… there’d better be WiFi.”

“It’s old, but it has all the amenities you require.” Mycroft turns the cup in his hand, hesitant. “There’s one more thing…”

“What?” Sherlock snaps irritability.

“We’ve released no public update on your condition. An internet rumor seems to have sprung up in the absence of information.”

“Which is?”

“That you’re dead.”

Sherlock stares at Mycroft. “And you haven’t denied it?”

“We’ve neither confirmed nor denied anything. Only a handful of people know the truth, including our parents, of course. Your attempted assassin might get restless, not knowing if they succeeded. They’re apt to make a blunder. That type always craves attention. So,” Mycroft sits up straighter, smoothing his waistcoat, “you get to recuperate while lying low.”

“You mean while playing dead.” Sherlock frowns, disgruntled. “What am I supposed to do out in the country? I’ll die of boredom.”

“Better than another bullet,” Mycroft replies dryly. “Consider it a holiday.”

“Hmph,” Sherlock grunts, the pain starting to throb in his chest again. “I hate holidays.”

“You used to like them,” Mycroft muses. “When we were young.”

Sherlock’s eyes are growing heavy, pain medication dulling his wits. “You were never young,” he mutters, attempting a half-hearted insult.

“And you’re still a child,” Mycroft banters back, no venom in his words.

A nurse strides into the room, and Mycroft drifts out of the way so she can do her work. The nurse has an interesting tattoo on her arm, something with a bee and honeycomb, but Sherlock’s attention shifts when sees the exhaustion on Mycroft’s face and his uncharacteristically rumpled suit. He belatedly realizes that Mycroft has been keeping vigil by his bedside for countless hours. He’s oddly touched by this display of brotherly devotion, and takes the opportunity to give Mycroft a gruff reprieve. “You look like hell. Go home. I’ll be fine.”

Mycroft hesitates but doesn’t argue. “I suppose I could do with some proper sleep.” He slowly gathers his coat, patting his pockets for his phone. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

They exchange a look over the nurse's shoulder, and the words of thanks Sherlock wants to say can’t find their way to his mouth. “Go,” he says instead, and Mycroft lingers a moment, nods, and seems to understand.

When both Mycroft and the nurse are gone, Sherlock drifts in and out of sleep, dreaming of a childhood visit to the beach, of leaping playfully onto Mycroft’s back, throwing his six-year-old arms around his chubby brother’s neck, both giggling.

The sand gradually shifts into a desert, a soldier in a drab khaki uniform standing on a rocky ridge, his face hidden in shadows. Sherlock strains to make out his features but the soldier turns and walks away, disappearing into shimmering heat waves on the horizon, leaving him alone.


	2. Chapter 2

_**10 days later** _

Sherlock resettles the laptop on his legs, trying to find a comfortable typing position while stretching out on the sofa in the library. The safe house is old and drafty with ancient plumbing, gloomy furniture, and worn rugs, the WiFi apparently the only modern feature. The British government clearly had no budget to upgrade the decor.

He lets his gaze wander over the shelves crammed with musty books, then on the window that looks out to the neglected garden, fading yellow and orange blooms waving in the autumn twilight. He had taken a short walk along the overgrown paths that morning with the nurse, discouraged at how tired the exertion still made him. She pushed him to keep going just a bit farther, encouraging him to keep building up his strength. He finds her positive attitude annoying, but knows he has to comply if he ever wants to recover.

He turns his attention back to the computer screen, scrolling through his inbox, hoping for a case to distract him. He can’t actually work while trapped in the countryside — he’s possibly deceased, after all — but he’s desperate enough to check for some sort of puzzle to occupy the time.

Nurse Cornish clatters into the room with a tea tray and places it on the low table by the sofa. She glances at the laptop screen as she pours him a cup. “How’s the private investigator business these days?”

Sherlock bristles at her inaccuracy and snaps the laptop shut. “Consulting detective.”

“Oh, right.” She waits while he eases into a sitting position, then hands him the cup and saucer. She settles across from him in a wingback chair, pouring her own tea. She stirs in the sugar, then taps the spoon, her gaze going to the laptop again. “What exactly does a ‘consulting detective’ do?”

Sherlock bites back a sarcastic answer and patiently tries to explain. “I solve problems other people can’t. I observe what others don’t, apply basic science, and deduce outcomes using facts.”

She nods slowly. “And you can make a living from this, solving other people’s problems?”

He waves a dismissive hand. “There’s no shortage of crime in the world.”

“I suppose that’s true,” she snorts. “How do you find crimes to solve?”

“I know a detective inspector at Scotland Yard… he comes to me with cases they can’t solve. And I have a contact at St. Bart’s morgue who alerts me to oddities she finds on corpses—” he changes tack when he sees Nurse Cornish’s appalled expression. “And clients contact me through my website. Lots of missing dogs and suspected affairs, stolen valuables, that sort of thing,” he adds, trying to tone down the content of his work.

“I see.” She looks dubious, but gallantly strives for an encouraging response. “I’m sure it must be very interesting.”

“It can be. Although most cases boil down to one of three motives: money, jealousy, or revenge.”

Nurse Cornish picks up a chocolate biscuit. “I’d say there’s a fourth.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Which is?”

“Love. Oh, don’t roll your eyes at me like that. Think about it. People would do almost anything for someone they love.”

“Or hate.”

“You’re a cynic,” she chides him. “If you ever fall in love, you’ll see.”

Sherlock stares at his milky tea. “That’s not going to happen.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not interested in all that romantic drivel. I have my work, and that’s all I need.”

“Oh, work, work, work. There’s more to life than that.” She lets out an exasperated breath and looks like she’d like to say more, but restrains herself. She smooths back her hair with one hand.

“Anyway,” she deliberately changes the subject, looking around the room. “Creepy old house, isn’t it? The bloke who drove me up here told me it’s haunted.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes again. “Nonsense.”

“He said all sorts of strange things happen — lights flickering out, doors shutting on their own, things going missing.”

“Faulty wiring, drafty rooms, and forgetfulness can explain each of those phenomena.”

“Well, then, I’m glad I have my nice cozy room downstairs and you have the big bedroom upstairs with that awful stain on the floor.”

Sherlock looks at her wearily over his tea cup.

“The driver told me that’s where it happened,” she continues.

Sherlock presses his lips shut, determined not to engage in this ridiculous conversation.

Undeterred, Nurse Cornish whispers dramatically, “Your room is where he _died.”_

Sherlock cracks, curiosity getting the best of him. “Who died?”

“The young man of the house way back in the early 1900s. Story is,” she leans forward like a confidante, “he trained as an army surgeon and was shipped overseas during World War I. He survived two years of action, then caught a bullet in the desert somewhere. They patched him up and sent him home, but he never recovered. His wound never healed properly and he bled to death on the floor of that bedroom upstairs. They say he died from a curse. Or was it a broken heart?” She tilts her head, trying to remember. “Whatever it was, it was an unhappy ending, so the poor sod still haunts this house.”

At that moment a sudden gust of wind rattles the windows, making them both jump. Nurse Cornish laughs nervously. “See? He’s listening.”

Sherlock is irritated at himself for being so easily startled. He swallows his tea and sets the cup and saucer down. “It’s an entertaining story, but ghosts don’t exist.”

She shrugs again. “Maybe they do. Maybe you’ll change your mind after a few days in this place.”

“I sincerely hope to spend as little time here as necessary.”

“Well, you’re stuck with me in the meantime.” She bites into another biscuit.

“I suppose I ought to know your first name, then.”

“Hannah.” She unceremoniously wipes crumbs from the corner of her mouth.

“And what will you do, Hannah, if you meet a ghost?”

“I’m not sure,” she says thoughtfully. “I don’t frighten that easily.”

Sherlock smiles, almost starting to like her. “No, I don’t think you do.”

“As a nurse, I’ve seen it all. Blood, bones, bits. Speaking of which,” she bangs the cups back onto the tray, “I’ll clear up and then it’s time for your bath.”

Sherlock cringes at being fussed over like a helpless child. ”I can manage.”

“No, you can’t. Let me do my job.”

Sherlock knows it’s useless to argue, so he scowls instead, fervently hoping that Mycroft catches his assailant quickly so he can go home to recuperate in peace.

 

**************

Later that night, Sherlock sits on the edge of his bed in his dressing gown, resting for a moment before changing into pajamas. His hair is damp from the shower, a droplet of water running down his nape. He’s tired and his body aches. Sleep beckons even though it’s barely nine o’clock.

The wind moans around the house, the damp scent of rain in the air. Somewhere outside an agent is stationed to keep watch over the house, probably huddling in his car with a thermos of hot tea, cursing his bad luck for drawing such a boring assignment.

Hannah has retired downstairs to watch telly, just a button press away should he need her.

Sherlock undresses slowly, wincing when he draws his shoulders back to slip off his dressing gown. He glances at the angry wound on his chest, noting the gradual progress in healing, but trying not to dwell on it. There will always be a scar there to remind him of his close call.

He reaches for an old t-shirt laid out on the bed, shivering slightly as the cool air plays over his bare skin. The room is large and drafty, an unlit fireplace taking up one wall, a desk and chair against another. A thick rug partially covers the floor, but fails to hide the dark stain near the bed.

He gazes at the circular shape soaked into the floorboards. Probably just oil from a lamp spilled decades ago. Highly unlikely that blood would leave such a permanent stain. However, if the wood was soft like pine, perhaps the porosity would create such an effect… He wishes he could pry up a sliver of wood to analyze in the lab.

If it _is_ blood, he continues to muse, the t-shirt still folded in his hands, what kind of injury would cause that much blood loss? Stomach wound? Chest wound?

As he ponders, the distinct feeling that he’s not alone creeps over him like a shadow. He quickly glances at the door, thinking Hannah might have popped her head in to check on him. It’s shut, the room silent. He turns to the window to check if the heavy curtains are drawn. They are.

He casts his eyes around the room, searching the dark corners for movement, his senses on high alert. He can detect nothing, but the hair on his arms stands on end.

“Who’s there?”

His challenge goes unanswered. His straining ears pick up the steady ticking of the alarm clock on the bedside table, his heart beating equally fast. He doesn’t breathe, frozen, flashing back to the alleyway, terrified his assassin has somehow found him.

A pool of frigid air sinks over him and he shivers again, his nipples hardening. A strange pressure trails slowly down his chest, lingering near the bullet wound. The sensation is cold, painless, yet somehow unbearable.

_I’m dying,_ Sherlock thinks, unable to move, _I’m going into cardiac arrest and I’m dying._

Suddenly the pressure lifts and he gasps for breath, the t-shirt falling to the floor. Still in a fog, he fumbles for the call button with shaky hands, collapsing against the pillows, his skin pale and clammy.

Hannah soon enters the room, her footsteps quickening once she sees him. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock mumbles as she checks his pulse. “I swear someone was in the room with me. Everything went cold, and my chest — there was pressure… couldn’t breathe.”

She pulls the stethoscope from her bag and listens carefully to his heart, takes his blood pressure and temperature, then asks a series of questions about his symptoms.

His breathing gradually calms, and she helps him into his pajamas, tucking him under the covers.

“So my heart…?” he begins tentatively.

“It’s not a heart attack,” she reassures him, plumping the pillow behind his head. “It was a panic attack.”

He stares at her.

“Perfectly normal, considering what you’ve been through. You’re in a strange house, you’re tired, under stress…”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, it’s not like that.”

“You’ve experienced trauma.” She places a hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “It’s okay. It’s going to take some time to process that.”

Sherlock remains silent, hesitant to admit she’s probably right. He feels foolish, allowing his imagination to overwhelm his normally rational brain. Ghosts and killers and blood stains... He rubs his eyes, exhausted.

“Sleep will do you wonders.” She pats his arm again. “And don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.” She packs up her things, then turns to leave. “Oh, nice that you’ve got a fire going. That’ll take the chill off.”

Sherlock’s eyes dart to the fireplace where a gas flame is burning low in the grate. “I didn’t light it.”

They both look at the fire, silent for a moment, unable to offer an explanation.

“Quirky old houses. You know how they are,” Hannah finally says without conviction. “Do you want me to leave it on?”

Sherlock nods. He could do with some extra warmth.

“Okay then, good night.”

“Thank you, Hannah.”

She smiles, then switches off the small bedside lamp and leaves.

Sherlock settles deeper into bed, trying to relax. There’s a reasonable explanation for everything, but he’s too tired to figure it out. His eyes grow heavy and he begins to drift off, his body warming under the covers.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock sleeps deeply despite the oddities of the night, finally making his way downstairs for a late breakfast. Hannah checks his vitals again then shoos him outside for another walk in the walled garden.

There’s an invigorating bite to the air that clears his head, and when he’s allowed back inside he goes immediately to his laptop to research all he can about the various properties of wood commonly used in flooring and construction. He sets up a spreadsheet to organize the information and happily spends the afternoon lost in oak and pine with detours to cherry, mahogany, and walnut.

He’s forced to take a break in the late afternoon when Hannah prods him to get off the sofa to get some more exercise, so he prowls idly through the house, feeling like a caged animal. He returns to the library to continue his research, annoyed to discover that Hannah has moved his laptop.

He searches around and under the sofa, then the desk and tables without success. Exasperated, he hunts Hannah down in the kitchen.

“Where did you move my laptop?”

She looks insulted. “I didn’t touch it.”

“It’s not where I left it on the sofa. So clearly you touched it.”

“I certainly did not. I’ve been in here cooking.”

“It didn’t bloody get up and walk away,” Sherlock snaps.

She puts down the knife she’s been using to chop vegetables and wipes her hands on a towel, impatient. “It’s got to be somewhere, hasn’t it?” She stomps off toward the library.

For the next 15 minutes they search high and low for the laptop, widening the scope to the entire ground floor.

“Have you checked your room?” Hannah finally asks, her hands on her hips.

“No, obviously, because I didn’t go upstairs.”

She shoots him a tired look and trudges up the stairs, ignoring his protests that it couldn’t possibly be in his bedroom. In a few moments she’s holding the laptop triumphantly as she descends the steps.

“It was right on your bed, plain as day.” She hands him the computer with a smirk. “I thought you said you were a detective.”

Sherlock takes the laptop, perplexed. “I don’t understand. I didn’t go upstairs at all this afternoon,” he trails after Hannah as she returns to the kitchen.

She stops suddenly by the worktop. “Okay, very funny.”

He looks up at her. “Sorry?”

“Nice joke, but I’d like to finish making supper. Give me back my knife.”

“I don’t have it.”

“Well, what happened to it?” She searches around the kitchen, muttering to herself.

Sherlock wanders back to the library, starting to tire from all the exertion. He’s about to settle back onto the couch when a gleam of light across the room catches his eye.

Looking closer, he’s startled to see a knife handle protruding from a bookshelf. He cautiously approaches, noting the way the blade is plunged between two thick books.

“Oh my god, is that my knife?”

He winces at Hannah’s loud voice behind his shoulder.

“It seems so.” He tilts his head, observing the knife from another angle. It was placed with care, not violence, leaving the books unharmed.

“Oh my god,” Hannah says again. “What if the stories about the ghost are true?”

“They’re not.”

“First the fireplace turning on by itself, then your laptop, now this —”

“Hannah, really.” Sherlock keeps his voice calm. “There must be a logical explanation.”

“Then what if somebody’s still in the house, hiding, just waiting to kill us?” Hannah nervously strokes her throat.

“Someone’s playing a game. If they wanted us dead, they’d have done it by now.”

Her face blanches.

“It’s how these things go. Trust me.”

“Exactly how many enemies do you have?” she asks incredulously.

“Lots.”

“Oh God, I never should have taken this job.”

“I’ll tell my brother to double your pay. Hardship duty.” He gives her a smile, trying to lighten her mood. “Now buck up. Call the agent on duty outside and ask him if anyone’s been near the house. Gardener, bicyclist, delivery van, anything. Have him run back through the surveillance footage for anything unusual.”

Hannah nods and hurries off to find her phone.

Sherlock inspects the knife again, wondering who is toying with him. Was it related to the shooting, or something else entirely? Why all this nonsense about ghosts? Why bother to take the knife and stab it here? Was this some sort of message?

He studies the two books cradling the knife blade. Both are brown leather with gilded spines, one a collection of Shakespeare sonnets, the other untitled. He plucks a tissue from a nearby box and uses it to cover the knife handle, preserving any fingerprints. He carefully pulls out the blade and sets it aside, then slides out the heavy volume without a title. He soon realizes it’s not a book, but a photo album.

He flips it open, and sepia-toned faces stare back at him. There are portraits of wide-eyed children and somber adults, snapshots of picnics and family gatherings, a fluffy white dog, the exterior of the house in its better days, young people on bicycles, a soldier in uniform.

Sherlock pauses, drawn to the last photograph. The man, perhaps 29 or 30 years old, gazes toward the camera, his hair cropped close on the sides. His chin and jaw are square, his lips thin. But his eyes — they are older than his face, guarded. He sits on wooden bench, his posture perfect. He wears a khaki tunic with breast pockets and brass buttons, a medical cross insignia sewn on the shoulder. Although his legs aren’t visible, Sherlock imagines puttees winding from his ankles to his knees above hobnail boots.

The back of Sherlock’s neck prickles with the uncanny sensation that he’s seen the man somewhere before.

He removes the picture from the tabs holding it in place, then turns it over. A name is penned on the back in a fading spidery script: _Capt. J. Watson_

He searches his memory for any thread of a connection when he remembers the dream he had in the hospital — the beach transforming into a desert, a soldier standing on a high ridge. He was dressed like this, in a khaki uniform. What were the odds of dreaming that before coming here? But it’s just a coincidence. A very strange coincidence.

“I called the agent,” Hannah announces as she comes back into the room, her phone still clutched in her hand. “He said he’d have a look at the video later. He wants to check inside the house now.”

“Fine,” Sherlock says distractedly, turning a page of the album. There’s another photo of the soldier; this time he’s standing in front of a large tent, squinting into the sun. Probably taken at a field hospital somewhere.

A third photo shows him with a group of men, no doubt his unit, an army ambulance behind them

Hannah hovers at Sherlock’s elbow. “Is that him? The soldier who died in the house?”

“Captain Watson.”

“Handsome fellow. Quite dashing in his uniform.” She studies the grainy images, then gasps, pointing at the group photo. “This one looks like you, don’t you think?”

Sherlock peers closer at a man lounging against the ambulance. He’s tall and lanky with dark hair and sharp features.

“Look at those eyes and cheekbones. He could be your grandfather or something.” Hannah’s phone buzzes and she answers it. After a quick conversation, she ends the call. “That was Agent Dimmock. He’s just driving up. I’ll go let him in.”

As she walks away, Sherlock gazes at the man in the picture, having to admit there is a strong resemblance. He turns the photograph over, but the back is blank. How peculiar, finding these photos — the dead soldier and his own doppelgänger from the past. It’s almost as though he was led right to them…

He studies the photo of Captain Watson again, imagining him growing up in this house, standing in this very room, reading, playing cards with his family, laughing, vibrantly alive, then coming back home a wounded man, his life ebbing away on the floor upstairs.

Sherlock continues to analyze the captain’s face. His expression is hard to read; is the jut of his chin and steely gaze dutiful or disdainful? It fascinates him. He was an attractive man, clearly intelligent and quite fit. For some reason, Sherlock wishes he knew what color his eyes were.

He gradually becomes aware of a chill settling around him. His senses tingle with the unnerving feeling that he’s being watched again. He goes still, holding his breath.

_William._

The voice is a tendril of a whisper, causing Sherlock to glance quickly behind him. Nobody is there. His heart races. Almost no one knows his given first name — William — and no one ever uses it. And yet he just heard it. He waits, unsure, tense. Nothing more happens.

Sherlock shakes his head, trying to clear the faint voice from his memory. It was the wind, nothing more. Only the adrenaline in his body says otherwise.

This house is getting to him, the strange occurrences and coincidences. He’s running out of theories to adequately explain everything, and he doesn’t like it.

He slips the field hospital and group photos from their tabs and slides all three images into his pocket. He’ll study them more closely later. Right now he needs to sit down.

He soon hears footsteps approaching the library, Hannah animatedly explaining the disappearing laptop and knife. She and Dimmock enter the room, and Sherlock pulls himself together to curtly answer Dimmock’s questions and instruct him to have the knife tested for fingerprints. He doesn’t mention the voice.

“Right, then,” Dimmock closes his notebook and hitches up his trousers, puffing out his chest. “Sounds like we have a prankster on our hands. I’ll call in an extra patrol for outside, and I’ll stay on duty inside.”

Sherlock fixes him with a baleful look. “Not very reassuring, considering someone’s been slipping in and out at will, apparently.”

Dimmock’s face reddens. “These old houses, they sometimes have passages leading outside from the cellar. I’ll check it out.”

“Wonderful.” Sherlock can’t keep the sarcasm from his voice. Suddenly he just wants to lie down. “I’m going up to my room.”

“Everything alright?” Hannah asks as he gets to his feet.

He waves her away with his hand. “Just tired.”

“I’ll bring some supper up later.”

He nods and makes his way to the stairs, climbing them slowly, thinking.

Once in the privacy of his room, he takes out his phone and calls Mycroft.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft intones smoothly. “How’s the countryside?”

“Apart from the appalling lack of security, just peachy.”

“Pardon?”

Sherlock describes the latest events, his voice tetchy.

“That’s highly unusual,” Mycroft replies. “We have a number of security measures in place.”

“All of which are useless And did you know this house is supposedly haunted? My nurse is starting to think we have a resident ghost.”

“Poppycock,” Mycroft scoffs, then sighs. “Could you _possibly_ lead a mundane life, just for a few weeks?” He sighs again, and Sherlock can picture him massaging his temples. “Do you think you’re in any danger?”

Sherlock hesitates, then answers honestly. “No. I think someone is playing with us.”

“Hmm. Could be someone trying to frighten you, taking advantage of the ghost rumors, wanting you to leave the house for some reason.”

“Maybe.”

They discuss several theories, including the possibility that Dimmock and Nurse Cornish are involved, but Mycroft assures Sherlock that all the staff have met strict security clearances.

‘Have you made any progress on identifying the shooter?” Sherlock finally asks.

There’s a pause. “Not much, I’m afraid. We keep running into dead ends. I’m confident something will turn up.”

Sherlock bites back an unflattering comment, deciding to play nice. He needs a favor. “There’s one more thing -- I ran across some old photographs of the family who used to live here. They had a son who served in the army during World War I.”

“And?”

“I’m looking for more information about a Captain J. Watson, army doctor. Where he served, the name of his unit, death records, that sort of thing.”

“Why, may I ask?”

Sherlock fidgets, then takes a roundabout approach. “Did we ever have a relative who served in the first war?”

“I’ve no idea. Mummy might know. Why this sudden interest?”

“Just find out if we had a relation who served with Captain Watson, alright? You’ve got every government record at your fingertips. It shouldn’t take you long.”

Mycroft lets out an annoyed breath. “I don’t have time for your little genealogy hobby, Sherlock.”

“Don’t make me hack into your system again,” Sherlock warns.

“Fine, I’ll look into it.”

Sherlock can hear a pen scribbling on paper as Mycroft jots down a note.

“Is there anything else?” Mycroft asks impatiently.

“Just catch the gunman so I can go home.”

“I’m endeavoring to.”

Sherlock ends the call, then withdraws the three photographs from his pocket. He crawls under the bed covers, sifting through the pictures. His eyes soon grow heavy and he sets the photos aside, sinking down into his pillow, the gaze of J. Watson burned into his memory.


	4. Chapter 4

The rest of the evening passes uneventfully, and Sherlock is secretly relieved that Dimmock is on duty downstairs. He’s not concerned that someone is lurking in the house — no decent criminal would want to be caught yet, not when the fun is just starting — but he does feel better having Dimmock around for Hannah’s peace of mind.

He starts the fire to warm up the room, then passes the time by reading several scientific articles. On a whim, he begins scrolling through history sites, brushing up on his knowledge of World War I. He had deleted most of those lessons from school long ago. When the endless maps and campaigns start getting muddled in his head, he closes his laptop and switches off the lamp.

He settles into bed, trying to find a comfortable position. The pain is bad tonight, worse than it has been in several days, so he finally gives in and takes a mild painkiller with just enough codeine to take the edge off.

He’s at the precipice of sleep when it happens, the mattress sinking slightly at the foot of the bed. He’s barely able to open his eyes, shadows flickering along the walls as his vision adjusts. It’s a dream, it must be, because a man is seated on the edge of the bed, looking back at him.

It’s unmistakably Captain Watson, although he’s wearing civilian clothes — a white shirt with the sleeves pushed back, braces, dark trousers. And Sherlock knows those eyes. Even in the dim light, he can see now that they are blue. Deep indigo blue.

It doesn’t make any sense.

“You’re not real.” Sherlock’s voice is low and groggy.

The man’s expression doesn’t change, but he extends a hand, laying it on Sherlock’s leg.

There is a corresponding light pressure on his calf, and Sherlock laughs. He’s clearly losing his mind, dreaming up dead soldiers.

“This isn’t happening,” Sherlock slurs, tangled in his dream. He’s confused by what’s real and what isn’t, but somehow he’s not afraid.

Captain Watson smiles slightly, then his eyes darken. He slides his hand higher to Sherlock’s thigh. It’s an intimate gesture, and Sherlock stares dumbly at the fingers curled around his leg. He can feel the touch through the blankets, cold, almost electric, a mild current.

It was the same icy touch that had pressed on his chest last night. Sherlock gasps at the coldness, wondering why his brain is concocting this strange encounter.

Within moments, the area on his thigh grows warmer. Captain Watson leans closer.

_William._

Sherlock looks up quickly. Did he just speak? The captain holds his gaze, and slides his hand up higher, his fingers curving over Sherlock’s inner thigh.

Sherlock breathes in sharply at the touch. It’s unexpected, but not unwelcome. Something in him stirs, a faint memory — the weight of his hand, the golden hair on his forearm, those indigo eyes. He melts into the moment, the air heavy with possibility. His body heats in response, filing with desire, blood rushing to his groin.

This is too bizarre, too revealing of a dream. And yet he’s tempted to follow it, to let it unfold, to allow that strangely familiar palm to slide between his pliant legs, to cup his balls and half-hard cock, to stroke and coax him to a sleepy, sensual climax.

It’s madness. He’s being seduced by a ghost.

“This isn’t real,” Sherlock says again, fighting against his confusion.

The captain holds his gaze a moment longer, his eyes filled with emotion. It is, Sherlock slowly realizes, longing. Desperate, aching want that makes his own body throb with empathy.

The wind rattles the shutters outside the window and the flame in the fireplace gutters, nearly going out, darkening the room. A moment later, the captain vanishes.

Sherlock stares into the dark, dazed by what just happened. Is he asleep or awake? He presses his hand against his fading erection, his arousal unsatisfied. A fog of melancholy fills him, regret and sadness for something he can’t name, but traceable to what he saw in Captain Watson’s eyes.

 

****************

Sherlock drifts like a ghost himself through the house the next day, preoccupied and silent. Hannah gives him a wide berth until she brings him a cup of tea in the late afternoon.

“You’re quiet today,” she observes.

“Didn’t sleep well.” He offers nothing more.

“I saw Dimmock earlier. He says nothing unusual appeared in the video footage. And there’s no passages leading from the cellar, either. So…” Hannah trails off. “At least there’s a second person on watch now. That makes me feel a little better.”

“Good.” He pretends to be absorbed by the article pulled up on his laptop, but he can’t concentrate. The words swim in front of his eyes, his mind constantly returning to the night before. Hannah finally walks away, leaving him to brood.

His phone vibrates and he answers when he sees it’s Mycroft calling.

“I have information about your Captain Watson,” Mycroft says, skipping any small talk.

Sherlock shifts the laptop to the table and sits up. “Go ahead.”

“He joined the Royal Army Medical Corps in 1915, and the following year was sent to Basra as part of the Mesopotamian Campaign in what is now Iraq. He was assigned to help establish and run a new hospital near the city.”

Sherlock can hear the shuffle of papers before Mycroft continues. “His unit then accompanied General Maude’s offensive on Baghdad, which fell to the British in March 1917. His unit was eventually reassigned to support the Sinai and Palestine Campaign… He was wounded on September 23, 1918, at the Battle of Megiddo. He was shipped home.” The rasp of papers can be heard again. “He died December 3rd, 1918, at his family’s estate.”

Sherlock silently absorbs this short biography. He needs to know one important detail. “What was his first name?”

There is a pause. “John.”

_John,_ Sherlock repeats to himself. Such a simple, solid name. “And what about our family? Did anyone serve with him?”

“There are a number of conscription records with the surname Holmes,” Mycroft says. “But I found something else rather interesting. Had to use my special clearance to access sealed files.”

“How stunning,” Sherlock says, unimpressed. “What did you find?”

Mycroft sniffs. “There was a William Holmes recruited into the British Intelligence Corps at the start of the war. He was at Cambridge, quite brilliant, apparently. He was assigned to the Middle Eastern theatre.”

“You mean he was a spy,” Sherlock says.

“Yes, a spy, in common terminology. He did file reports from Basra and Baghdad, so it’s possible that he and Watson crossed paths.”

Sherlock’s heart skips a beat as he recalls the group photo with the ambulance.

“And is he a direct relation of ours?”

“It seems likely, although I don’t recall any mention of him.”

“Maybe he was the black sheep of the family,” Sherlock muses.

“You would know about that.”

Sherlock ignores the barb. “What happened to him?”

“He was reported missing in late 1918, and eventually presumed dead. However, he resurfaced in England several years later. The trail is murky -- records are missing. He was probably assigned to a special mission, deep infiltration, top secret and all that. Once back in England, he quit the service. Became a recluse, died alone. There’s not much more to tell.”

“Is there a photo of him?”

“Er, yes.” He can hear Mycroft flipping through the folder contents. “Actually, you bear a striking resemblance to him.”

“Take a picture with your phone and send it to me,” Sherlock orders.

Mycroft sighs, followed by a few moments of rustling. Sherlock’s phone pings with a new message.

“Will that be all?” Mycroft asks wearily.

“Yes. Fine. Thank you.” Sherlock is eager to end the call and examine the photo.

“Good luck with... whatever you’re doing,” Mycroft adds.

“Thanks.” Sherlock ends the call and opens the photo. He gazes at it for a long time. It is, without a doubt, the same young man from the group photo. Dark wavy hair, high cheekbones, haughty expression. William Holmes. It’s like looking into a mirror.

They must have known each other, John Watson and William Holmes. They appeared in the same photo, even though Holmes wasn’t part of the RAMC. That meant they were probably acquaintances, or friends. Possibly more.

Memories of last night’s dream shimmer over him — the hand on his thigh, the sound of his name, the sense of intimacy, the longing and desire…

What if…? Sherlock can barely allow himself to acknowledge his next thoughts. What if there _are_ parallel universes, or past lives? What if ghosts do exist? Souls or energy or whatever you want to call it trapped between worlds?

He grits his teeth, forcing himself to contemplate the ridiculous. What if a ghost had slid the knife into the bookshelf so he’d find the photo album? What if a ghost had been in his room last night, communicating with him, touching him? And what if that ghost had been, in a past life, his lover?

“Oh god,” Sherlock groans, covering his face with his hands, embarrassed at his train of thought. It’s insane. It goes against everything his rigorous scientific training stands for. It’s simply not possible.

He sweeps away supernatural explanations, determined to focus solely on facts. He takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly, his confidence wavering. The facts are inconsistent and incomplete. For the first time in his life, he’s adrift in a sea of doubt, and science can’t save him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For any history buffs out there, I did base John's military assignments around actual events and battles (but took a lot of liberties). And in case you need to see John in his uniform:  
> 


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock dines in the kitchen with Hannah that evening, finding her rambling stories about her ex-boyfriend a much-needed dose of dullness.

He clears the dishes as she pours herself a third glass of wine.

“And then he had the nerve to ask if he could borrow my car! Can you believe that, after what he did? I told him to sod off.” She slumps back in her chair. “What a dick.”

“Clearly,” Sherlock agrees.

“What about you? Ever date a total dick?”

Sherlock is spared from answering when a loud scraping noise causes them both to look up at the ceiling. It sounds like a heavy piece of furniture is being dragged across the wood floor.

“What is that?” Hannah asks, worried.

Sherlock leaves the kitchen and cautiously approaches the staircase.

“Don’t go up there,” Hannah pleads, right on his heels.

The scraping and banging continues. It’s coming from his room. Sherlock puts one foot on the bottom step, but Hannah clutches at his hand.

“Don’t.”

The noises stop. They both stare up at the dark landing, waiting. Sherlock lays a palm on the polished wooden bannister and begins the climb up.

 _“Sherlock!”_ Hannah hisses. “Are you mad?”

Undeterred, he continues up the steps. Hannah scurries after him, whimpering in between curse words.

He reaches the top of the landing, Hannah practically glued to him. He waves her away from the door, then presses his back to the hallway wall, out of the line of fire. He places his hand over the doorknob, drawing in a breath. He doesn’t want to go in, but he has to know.

He carefully turns the knob, then lets the door swing open in a slow arc, the hinges creaking in a long groan. He counts several beats, then peers around the doorframe.

The fireplace is mysteriously lit again, shadows licking the walls. A quick scan reveals that no one is in the room, nothing obviously overturned or out of place. He flicks on the light switch, but nothing happens. Bad fuse, faulty wiring, paranormal interference, he doesn’t know anymore.

He can feel Hannah on her tiptoes, trying to peek over his shoulder.

“Wait here,” he murmurs, then pads through the room, checking the wardrobe, bed, anywhere a person could hide. He flicks aside the curtains to inspect the windows, and finds no sign of entry or exit.

Hannah steps uneasily into the room and tries the light switch herself with no success. They look at each other in the semidarkness.

“I suppose it could have been a rat bumping around,” she says, trying to sound convincing. “Maybe it chewed through the wiring, too.”

Sherlock sits on the edge of his bed, defeated. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I’ve devoted my life to science, and I can’t explain any of this.”

Hannah sits down next to him, her hands in her lap. “I never really believed in ghosts. But now...” she turns up her palms, he shoulders hunched. “I don’t think what’s happening is a prankster. Or even exactly human.”

Sherlock looks at her and she meets his gaze. In that second, they both wordlessly admit to the possibility that something otherworldly exists in the house.

“Are you afraid?” Sherlock asks.

She slowly shakes her head. “I don’t think it wants to hurt us. I think it — he — wants to be acknowledged.”

Sherlock is struck by her words. She’s right. He needs to acknowledge what he’s experienced, but can’t explain. He’s very close to telling Hannah everything, that he’s seen Captain Watson seated on this very bed, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

“Maybe he needs something from us before he can rest,” Hannah adds, then gives Sherlock an embarrassed smile. “Or maybe that’s daft.”

“It’s as plausible as anything else at this point.” He looks away. “You can leave, if you want to,” he offers, giving her an out. “You don’t have to stay in this house.”

“What? And leave you here alone? Absolutely not.” She straightens her shoulders. “I’m staying. I’m not leaving my patient. Do you hear that, Captain Watson?”

Sherlock half expects a book to go flying across the room, but everything remains quiet.

“Well,” Hannah says. “I hope that’s a good sign.” She glances over at Sherlock. “Do we tell Dimmock about this?”

Sherlock considers several scenarios, none of them productive. “No.”

“Agreed.” She stands up, her footing a little unsteady, causing a floorboard to squeak as she catches her balance. “I think I need to finish that glass of wine. Calm my nerves. Care to join me?”

Sherlock’s attention is drawn to the dark stain on the floor where she had just stepped. Something tugs at his subconscious, just out of his reach. “Uh, no. I think I’ll just stay here.”

“You sure?” She glances at the stain and grimaces. “You could change rooms, you know. Switch to one a little less gruesome.”

“There’s no point now.”

“I suppose not. Right, then. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

He barely notices when Hannah leaves, his focus on the floor. Suddenly it dawns on him. That board she stepped on never used to squeak. He stands up and presses his foot on the same spot, giving it a little bounce. It creaks in protest. In fact, it feels a bit loose.

He crouches down and runs his fingers down the grooves, stopping when he finds a spot that feels slightly elevated. He pries gently at the edges, his pulse quickening when the segment of floorboard starts to give way. He exerts more force and the wood lifts up, revealing a hidden recess.

The room is still dim and it takes a moment to see the object stashed in the alcove. Sherlock reaches down and draws out a slim book bound in leather. He carefully opens the front cover and is astonished to see handwriting filling the pages.

It is a diary, the first entry dated October 14, 1918. It has to be John Watson’s.

Sherlock squints at the writing in the poor light. The paper has yellowed and the ink has faded over the years, but it’s still legible.

He makes his way to the fireplace and draws a chair closer to the flame for better light. He turns the diary in his hands, sensing that he was meant to find it, just like he was meant to discover the photographs. The journal has been hidden under the floor for a hundred years, waiting to be held and read by him. It’s as if John Watson is speaking to him now, about to reveal his most intimate thoughts.

With shaky hands, Sherlock opens the diary and begins to read.

_I’ve arrived home and am once again settled in my childhood room, but little remains of that hopeful, naive boy I once was. I’ve seen horrible things that cause me to wake drenched in cold sweat. I sleep too little. I drink too much. The days are too long. I’ve lost everything dear to me._

_My physician, an old friend who never went to war because of his asthma, thinks it will help if I write about my experiences. Not to publish, but just for my own clarity. He’s a believer in psychology. Writing is supposed to be therapeutic. I have my doubts, but since I haven’t anything else to do, I might as well try._

_What do I write about? Field exercises and drills? Blood and missing limbs? The unrelenting desert heat? The days of boredom or moments of terror? I don’t want to think about those things. I don’t want to relive them by writing them down._

_There is nothing I want to remember about the war._

 

**_October 17_ **

_I modify my last statement. There are two things that I want to remember from the war. The first is having a purpose. I was a damned fine surgeon, given the circumstances we worked in. I miss the mad rush and the quick decisions, the calm focus conjured in the midst of chaos. I saved many lives, but I wonder how many of them were fed right back into the trenches. Maybe I only delayed the inevitable._

_What purpose I had as a surgeon is now void, my shoulder a ruined mess. Even holding a pen is difficult. There’s no hope for wielding a scalpel with precision again. My physician friend suggests I take up general practice, treating old men with gout and children with rashes. He means well, but I’d rather treat sheep and cows._

_The fact is, I don’t know how to live with normal people anymore. I’ve forgotten the proper rules, how to behave. Everything is so restrained, it’s stifling._

_Which brings me to the other thing I want to remember. Someone who didn’t care about convention and propriety. Someone I can't forget. It's almost too painful to look back. I falter even trying to write this, so many bittersweet memories are flooding through me._

_I can’t attempt to put this into words today. I can only write his name — William._

_I miss him. I regret that I didn’t tell him things that I should have._

**_October 23_ **

_My wound is not healing well. I’m a terrible patient, disagreeable and stroppy._

_It has been raining for days, which I don’t mind. It never rained in the desert._

**_October 29_ **

_Today I finally looked at several photographs I brought back. There was one of my unit in Baghdad. It was good to see everyone’s faces again, even though some of them are gone now._

_William is in one the photos. I never knew when he would appear or disappear from camp. I knew that he worked for Intelligence, and he was understandably vague about his duties. He always joked that he was just a messenger, sent here and there on his motorbike. He'd be gone for days or weeks, then suddenly I’d see him in a spot of shade outside the hospital, smoking a cigarette as if he’d never left, that devilish smile playing on his lips._

_God, his mouth. I could gaze at it for hours. But his eyes… I could lose myself in them forever. I never did decide what color they were -- blue, green, grey, or all of them._

_I would give anything to have those precious hours back, the times we managed to slip away to a rundown hotel far from camp. To close the shutters against the heat and light and hide behind the thick walls in a cool room, our bodies pressed together on the thin mattress, mouths on skin, risking everything to be alone, escaping the outside world for a short while._

 

Sherlock lowers the diary to his lap, shaken. To see John Watson and William Holmes’ relationship confirmed in John’s own handwriting overwhelms him. Reading the diary is like looking through a telescope backwards, gazing into the past while anchored in the present, the view appearing distant, yet in reality very near.

Reality is a subjective word. His head swims, trying to grasp how time might bend and fold, disobeying linear concepts; how lives might repeat again and again, echoing through the centuries.

Somehow, John Watson of 1918 still roams this house, an echo trapped between life and death, past and present. Somehow, William is a previous incarnation of his own life. He and John are bound together by some thread that transcends time, but now they are out of sync, their paths intersecting despite being born a century apart.

Sherlock pinches the bridge of his nose, struggling with his rational objections. He must remain open to the possibility that science cannot yet adequately explain the phenomena he’s experiencing. He must keep an open mind. He picks up the book again and continues reading, his hands still unsteady.

 

**_October 31_ **

_I can’t stop thinking about William. He was brilliant. He knew languages, mathematics, chemistry, botany, music. But it was his face that first caught my attention. I’ve always been a fool that way, turning my head to admire a pretty girl, or, more subtly, to eye a handsome bloke._

_The way he looked back at me when we first met — it was as if he read my mind and knew everything about me in two seconds. I felt stripped bare. When we talked, he already knew so much about me, it was uncanny. He said it was merely careful observation. He was amazing._

_I liked him right away, but a lot of the others didn’t. He could be arrogant, rude, but under all that, he was, I think, vulnerable. We seemed to have a mutual affinity from the very start. We could each see that we weren’t quite what we presented to the world._

_I think he kissed me first, late one night in Basra. I had come off duty at the hospital and there he was outside, waiting for me. We shared a cigarette behind the supply tent, empty crates and barrels stacked all around. It was dark, the night air humid, his shirt collar undone._

_When I reached to take the cigarette from his fingers, he leaned toward me, putting his lips on mine. Or did I lean toward him? Either way, I froze for a moment, then realized it was what I wanted. I kissed him back, our mouths tasting of bitter smoke._

_We found ways to be together — storage rooms, the empty chapel, even the back of an ambulance — anywhere we could get our hands and mouths on each other. It was dangerous and thrilling and we couldn’t get enough._

_I have to hide this journal, or burn it, confessing these things. But I’m not ashamed. He kept me sane in the madness of it all. He kept me human. I think I did the same for him._

**_November 7_ **

_I’ve been avoiding writing about the last time I saw William. It was in Baghdad. I had a few days’ leave in May. I was staying in a hotel that hadn’t been too badly damaged. William met me there and took the adjoining room, then slipped into my bed._

_We bathed together in the large tub, William reclining against my chest. I remember massaging his temples, the tension draining from his body. We wrapped ourselves in soft towels and stretched out on the bed, kissing and touching, taking our time._

_He guided my hand, showing me where he wanted my mouth, my fingers, my cock. We fucked slow and hard and quiet, muffling our cries against each other’s throats._

_We had three days and nights, drinking tea and dining, reading, strolling, fucking, lying in bed afterwards, talking, gazing. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy._

_On the last day, he told me he was going on an assignment and would be gone for three months, maybe more. I fell silent. I didn’t want him to go, but neither of us had a choice._

_He said he’d find me again, and if the war ever ended, that we’d meet in England. That he’d take me to his favorite places in London._

_I couldn’t find my voice. I just nodded, pushing down all the emotions that were fighting in my chest. I had to look away from him, trying to keep my composure._

_When we parted later, we stood on a busy street corner, about to go our separate ways. He put out his hand, and I shook it like we were old acquaintances, nothing more. He held my hand a moment and softly said my name, then hesitated._

_That’s when I should have told him. Instead, I broke my hand from his grip and hailed a car, not wanting to prolong the goodbye. I left him on the corner and didn’t look back._

_My unit was reassigned the following month. I didn’t hear anything from William, and I had no way to contact him. We transferred to our new command, and I waited for a letter, a note, anything. The summer went by, the battles intensified, and then I got wounded, shrapnel from an artillery shell._

_I still hope for a letter. I check the casualty lists, and his name hasn’t appeared as wounded, killed, or taken prisoner of war, so I dare to hope._

 

**_November 11_ **

_The war has ended. Thank God, it’s over. I pray for news soon._

**_November 15_ **

_It’s getting more difficult to write. My wound is infected. I’m convinced there are still shell fragments lodged in my shoulder, causing problems._

**_November 21_ **

_The infection lingers. The weather is turning colder and the days are growing shorter. My mood is as bleak as the landscape._

**_November 25_ **

_I saw it today. His name on a list. Missing in action. I’m losing hope._

**_November 30_ **

_My fever has risen. My heart rate is high. I know these aren’t good signs. Mother has called for the doctor._

**_December 2_ **

_I’m so tired. Dreams seem real, what’s real seems like a dream. I dream of William. His eyes, the curve of his smile, the feel of his body under my hands._

_I fear he’s dead. Oh God, I have so many regrets, and now it’s too late. I should have said it — I should have told him that I love him. I love him. I loved him._

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock closes his eyes, John’s words piercing his heart. His breath is uneven, but he forces his eyes open again, determined to read on. He struck with a small shock when he realizes the rest of the diary pages are empty. He rechecks the date of the last entry -- December 2 -- then recalls that John died the following day.

Dazed, Sherlock closes the journal, wiping away a tear that threatens to spill down his cheek. He stares into the fire, seized with sorrow and longing, unsure what year it is, if he’s William or Sherlock or some blend of both.

His chest hurts, but it’s not from his injury. It’s heartache. He stands up, wanting to alleviate his pain. He goes to the shower in the adjoining bathroom. The lights aren’t working here either, but a faint glow from the fireplace filters into the room though the open door.

He twists on the taps, strips off his clothes, and steps under the hot stream of water, hoping to somehow wash away his melancholy. He closes his eyes, letting the steam rise around him, the water thrumming against his back. He stays that way a long time, finally turning off the taps.

He dries his hair and face, then his body, and slips on his dressing gown, leaving it untied. He stands in front of the mirror and wipes away the steam, gazing at his face. It’s familiar and unfamiliar, like looking at a reflection in a deep well.

A breeze skims across his feet and calves and he feels the presence behind him. He knows what it is this time, and he is ready. He shifts his gaze in the mirror and sees the apparition standing just behind his shoulder.

Their eyes meet in the glass and his heart — William’s heart — quickens.

“John.” Sherlock says his name softly, letting it float in the humid air.

He is answered with a tentative touch, a hand laid lightly on his back, just below his shoulder blade, cool at first, then warming.

“I know you’re really here.” Sherlock keeps his voice low. “I found your diary.”

John inclines his head.

Sherlock’s mind is suddenly filled with the vision of John prying up the floorboard to hide the journal. He is pale, sweating, nearly delirious, a bloody bandage swaddled across his shoulder and chest. It takes all his strength to finish his task, his face twisting in pain as he pushes the board back into place. He remains crouched on the floor, panting. His hand clutches at his chest and he grimaces, falling forward, collapsing on the floor. It’s late at night, the house silent, no one hears a thing. In a few hours, he’s dead.

Septic shock, Sherlock can’t help himself from deducing, leading to organ failure. Antibiotics didn’t exist at the time.

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking into John’s eyes in the mirror. “For everything.”

John’s lips part, struggling to find a long unused voice. “I kept waiting. Until I couldn’t leave.” His words are raspy and halting, as if remembering a forgotten language.

Sherlock looks back at him, feeling more of William than himself. He turns to face John. “I’m here now.”

John gazes up at him, his hand lifting to Sherlock’s bare chest. He places his fingers carefully near the wound, a wordless question.

“I have enemies,” Sherlock offers as a cryptic explanation. He studies the man in front of him, his blue eyes, long lashes, strong jaw. He reaches out and experimentally touches John’s white shirt. He can feel the texture of the fabric, and beneath that a solidity like flesh and bone, yet there’s there’s a translucency to John’s form. The faintest of currents runs under his fingertips, a fine haze clings to his skin where he makes contact. Is it a form of energy? A recombination of matter that can be made visible or invisible, solid or vapor, warm or cold, at will? He’s mesmerized.

John gives him a small smile, and suddenly a wave of deja vu sweeps over Sherlock. He remembers that crooked smile -- over a teacup, across the officer’s club, next to him in bed. He flattens his hand against John’s chest, unbalanced, pulled into the past. John steadies him, waiting patiently.

After a few more moments, Sherlock’s system calms. He takes a deep breath, exhales, loosening his grip on John’s arms, but not letting go. He doesn’t want to lose their connection; he needs to touch him.

John searches his eyes, and Sherlock holds his gaze. John gently strokes a lock of Sherlock’s hair back from his forehead, then runs his fingers through his curls, lingering at his nape. The gesture is intimate and soothing, a motion done many times before.

John steps closer and Sherlock feels the electricity dancing between them. John traces his fingers down Sherlock’s neck, following the curve of his collarbone to the hollow of his throat. When John glances down and smiles again, Sherlock vaguely recalls that his dressing gown is untied, his cock in full view. He doesn’t care.

A mix of desire and curiosity floats through his veins like smoke. He wants to explore John with each of his senses, discovering and remembering small details. He’s drawn to John, driven by an insatiable need to be near him, to taste him.

Sherlock slowly lowers his head, tentatively brushing his lips against John’s, kissing him for the first time and the thousandth time. John’s mouth is warm, inviting another caress. Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut as John deepens the kiss, twining his fingers into his hair.

He gives up trying to explain how any of this is possible and lets himself fall into the moment, entranced by John’s gently demanding mouth. John kisses his lips, his jaw, his neck, sending shivers of pleasure down Sherlock’s spine.

John slides his hands around Sherlock’s waist, skimming them under his dressing gown, pulling him against his hips. Sherlock inhales sharply, his cock pressed between their bodies. John’s palms venture lower, cradling Sherlock’s plush arse, kneading his fingers into pliant flesh as he slips his tongue between Sherlock’s parted lips.

Sherlock can feel a bulge pressing against his own stiff cock, heightening his arousal. He rubs against John, rocking his hips in answer to John’s probing tongue, a moan escaping his lips.

“I’ve missed you,” John murmurs huskily, dipping his mouth to Sherlock’s bare shoulder. His robe is slipping off, hanging askew.

Sherlock’s fingers spider their way down John’s shirt, plucking open button after button. He wants to feel John’s skin against his own, warm and charged with mysterious energy. He pushes the shirt open, running his hands down John’s chest, taking in the bristle of hair, the planes of muscle, the curve of ribs.

He slides the fabric from John’s shoulder and sees his injury — an uneven patch of damaged flesh, pale and healed over. He touches it, marveling that they both bear similar scars.

His fingers go next to John’s waistband, working open his trousers, pushing them down to join the other clothing dropped on the floor, pools of cotton and wool and silk. Sherlock admires John’s strong thighs and his cock — oh, it’s a gorgeous thing, long and thick, the pink head budding from the dusky foreskin.

They stand naked, kissing, caressing in the dim light, the sound of their ragged breathing echoing against the tiles.

Sherlock doesn’t object when John takes his hand and leads him to the bed. Sherlock sinks to the mattress, pulling John after him. They cling together, mouths roaming, palms stroking, exploring every angle.

Sherlock is in a semi-daze, sighing languidly when John trails his lips down his throat to his chest, sucking one rosy nipple to a peak, then moving carefully to the other, cautious of his injury. Sherlock’s fingers tighten on John’s shoulders as he continues down his torso, nuzzling the sensitive skin above his navel.

John runs a hand up Sherlock’s thigh, then gently nudges it to the side, fitting himself between Sherlock’s legs, the mattress dipping under his weight. Sherlock’s breath catches as John’s lips skim across his stomach, teasingly slow, his hand wrapping around the base of his erection.

Sherlock swallows in anticipation, the tip of his cock so, so temptingly close to John’s mouth. John glances up at him, a taunting gleam in his eye.

“Please…” Sherlock whispers, aching to be drawn in and surrounded by John’s hot, wet mouth.

The first touch — a delicate lap of John’s tongue on the underside of his cock — makes Sherlock shiver. John holds his gaze, extending his tongue again, swirling it over the taut head, slow and deliberate. Snared in John’s blue eyes, Sherlock tries not to writhe, but his hips tilt up, wanting more, a bead of precome glistening at the slit.

John licks and fondles and teases, driving Sherlock mad. He bites his bottom lip, groaning half in pleasure, half in frustration. His cock is hard, leaking. He finally can’t bear it anymore.

“Suck me,” he pants breathlessly, “I need my cock in your mouth.”

The crooked smile again, but this time triumphant. John complies, lowering his head, taking him in, and slides down, down, then pulls up, slow, slow.

It feels deliciously good, the warm, wet friction sliding over his shaft. John's hand embellishes the movements with a steadily increasing rhythm, his mouth wrapped hungrily around Sherlock’s heavy cock.

The sounds Sherlock makes are guttural, needy, overwhelmed by the soft pad of John’s tongue, the firmness of his lips, the sheen of saliva and precome under John’s pumping hand. He grips the sheets, a lucious tension building, a wave gathering force, about to spill over

“Oh — God —” Sherlock cants his hips upwards, his fingers digging into the mattress. He comes, bursting into a million stars, his mind blank, timeless, nothing but primal pleasure rolling through his body.

He shudders, aftershocks of orgasm leaving him splayed on the bed. He’s barely aware of John stretching out next to him, kissing his shoulder. He closes his eyes, savoring these moments of bliss, the low hum of John’s presence next to him.

He finally turns to look at John, who is quietly gazing at him. Sherlock belatedly realizes he ought to reciprocate, and runs his hand over John’s hip, sliding it down to his cock.

John stops him gently with his own hand. “It’s alright.”

Sherlock furrows his brow, then notices the faint haze surrounding their hands has grown. John’s form is blurred, dissipating around the edges. It must take an enormous amount of energy to manifest a physical body, creating heat and substance. Perhaps anything else would be too demanding. His scientist brain has a million questions for John, all of which fade when he looks into his eyes.

His illogical heart takes over, wanting to memorize every lash and line of John’s face, the shape of his hands, the breadth of his shoulders, the sound of his voice.

“Say my name,” Sherlock whispers.

“William,” John answers, tucking a loose curl behind Sherlock’s ear. “But you prefer Sherlock now.”

Sherlock smiles, finding John’s mouth again, running his hand down John’s back, pulling him closer.

Somewhere deep in his cells he remembers this, a sense of peace and belonging, a feeling he didn’t think was possible until it was rekindled just now. Strange to think how this feeling has always been there, waiting to be unlocked by John. How many times have they met through the centuries? How many were fleeting encounters cut short by war or illness or societal boundaries? Have they ever been granted a lifetime together?

He places his fingertips on John’s cheek, gazing into eyes the color of an inky autumn night. “Do you remember previous lives?”

“Fragments, I think. In dreams. It always feels unfinished.”

Sherlock thinks back over his own dreams, trying to remember anything other than the soldier in the desert. He never assigned dreams much importance, a belief he now regrets.

They rest, twined together, and Sherlock drifts into a light sleep. When he wakes later, John has vanished. He touches the pillow next to him, filled with disappointment and a sense of injustice. Why did they have to meet this way, separated by so much time? Why couldn’t they have met in the same century, the same lifetime?

He curses the impossibility of the situation, staring at the fireplace, waiting vainly for John to return until sleep pulls him under.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, they did it! I always wanted to write ghost sex, and now I can cross that off the list with great satisfaction. In fact, there just might be more coming in the next update...


	7. Chapter 7

The next day drags on mercilessly. Sherlock paces restlessly or slumps on the sofa watching television, arguing with quiz shows or picking apart crime dramas. Hannah finally finds an excuse to go chat with Dimmock to get away from him for awhile.

Sherlock eventually goes to his room and opens his laptop, then closes it again, unable to think about anything but John. Desperate for a distraction, he decides to take another shower, hoping the warm water will soothe his raw nerves.

He stands under the stream of water, letting it massage his upper back. The corner of his mouth curves up when he realizes two hands have begun kneading his shoulders.

He turns, wanting to greet John properly, and is surprised to see no one is there. Uncertain, he reaches out, his hand making contact with what he thinks is an arm. “John?”

A mist gathers, gradually shaping into recognizable features. Sherlock finds it oddly fascinating, simultaneously looking _at_ and _through_ John. He puts his arms around John’s waist, tugging him closer, kissing him, water running over their torsos. What would it be like, he wonders, to be with John when he was completely invisible? It might be like being blindfolded, not knowing what was coming next.

“You could,” Sherlock suggests between kisses, “not be visible for awhile.”

John pulls back and looks at him quizzically.

Sherlock curls his hand suggestively around John’s cock. “You know… Surprise me.”

John smirks in understanding. “Always the adventurer.” He kisses the corner of Sherlock’s mouth and fades away.

Sherlock waits, the hiss of the shower and sharp scent of lavender soap filling the small space. Then he feels it, hands on his hips, the brush of a heavy cock against his own. Fingertips trace his cheekbone, over his lips, down his throat, mapping their way to his chest.

A soft warmth covers his mouth, surprising him, teasing with playful kisses and darting tongue, moving from lips to neck to temple, keeping him guessing. He blindly explores John’s body, finding intriguing slopes and angles. The game soon turns more serious, kisses growing long and sultry, hands moving languidly down backs and shoulders.

John smooths his hands over Sherlock’s arse, his fingers trailing down the damp cleft. The touch stimulates a new desire in Sherlock, something he doesn’t voice but that John instinctively knows.

John turns Sherlock by the hips to face the tile wall, pushing him forward with a gentle pressure on the back of his neck. Sherlock bends slightly at the waist, his forearms braced against the wall, his arse jutting out behind him. A glide of palm down his back tells him he’s standing just where John wants him.

John strokes Sherlock’s skin, his thumbs lingering over the two dimples nestled in his lower back. Sherlock holds his position, his heart racing with excitement. He can feel John shifting behind him, possibly lowering to his knees. John circles his palms over the globes of his buttocks, then spreads them apart, exposing the tender pink entrance. Rivulets of water trickle over the sensitive skin as Sherlock holds his breath in agonizing anticipation. It finally comes — a warm exhale, a shimmer of a touch.

Sherlock grips his fingers into the tiles, the flicker of John’s tongue sending flashes of pleasure to his brain. He soon forgets his surroundings, consumed by licks and swirls, decadently slow, warm, and wet.

He moans, pressing back against John’s probing mouth, wanting more. A hot stab of tongue makes him roll his forehead against his arm in surrender, and it comes again and again, deeper, coaxing him open.

Sherlock closes his eyes, his breath shallow, the water raining down on them. He’s surprised again when John draws away and the taps twist off.

Sherlock feels a hand around his wrist and obediently follows the tugging on his arm to the bedroom. They’re dripping wet, leaving a trail of water droplets on the floor. They stop by the side of the bed, John’s hands guiding Sherlock to a sitting position, then tipping him onto his back.

Without questioning, Sherlock follows every cue, a pressure on his knees urging him draw his feet up to the mattress, his toes curling over the edge, knees pointing up to the ceiling.

When his knees are parted and pushed slowly toward his chest, he understands. His breathing quickens again, his pupils dilating, knowing that John is standing at the edge of the bed while he lies naked before him, his entrance stretched and waiting.

John holds his thighs, keeping them pushed back, spread wide. Sherlock licks his lips, exposed, aching to be filled. Something touches him there — hot and wet and smooth. Not a mouth or finger, but John’s cock rubbing against him. Sherlock can feel how hard it is, the head swollen, the shaft rigid.

John presses into him, the tip slipping inside. Sherlock’s mouth forms an O, adjusting to the sensation. He feels a lubricating slickness and he briefly wonders how that’s possible. Is it ectoplasm? Bloody hell, what does it matter? He’s fucking a ghost, so anything is possible.

He relaxes his muscles, allowing John to slide in deeper. It’s arousing, not being able to see how much cock is filling him, only gauging the fullness, the slow stretch as John eases in bit by bit.

Sherlock tilts his pelvis, drawing in the last inch, craving the low hum of John’s body pulsing inside of him. He relishes the sway of heavy balls against his skin, the breathy grunts as he moves his hips to meet John’s initial thrusts.

The rhythm soon increases, the air punctuated by hitched breaths and small moans, squeaking springs and slapping skin. Sherlock closes his eyes, letting his body be used, pleasurably ravaged and plundered by John’s thick cock. He relinquishes control, shutting off his brain and offering his body as a vessel for John’s desires. He wants — _needs_ — to be thoroughly and properly fucked.

Sherlock is achingly hard, his cock bobbing and dripping onto his stomach. He touches himself, fingertips circling his nipples, his hand playing over his shaft.

He could easily make himself come, but he wants John to climax first, wants to feel the pulse of John’s orgasm inside of him. He clenches John’s cock, words spilling out of his mouth in a filthy, velvety rumble.

“Christ… your cock… it feels so good… fuck -- yes -- like that. Fuck me… Come in me...”

John’s hips stutter, his fingers clutching Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock hears the change in his breathing, the low moan starting low in his throat that peaks with several short, violent thrusts, a warm spasm deep within, gradually ebbing, hips circling, long sighs, the weight of John’s body sinking over him.

John reappears, his expression blissful. He cages Sherlock between his elbows, his mouth descending, claiming, then giving himself utterly in a grateful kiss. He rolls onto his side, avoiding any pressure on Sherlock’s chest. His form is still hazy, as if he doesn’t have the energy to sharpen his edges.

He turns his head toward Sherlock, finding his mouth, his palm covering Sherlock’s cock. It doesn’t take long — a few firm strokes — and Sherlock comes in John’s hand, moaning a kiss into his mouth.

They lay on the rumpled bed, spent, their arms and legs touching, gazing at the ceiling as their breathing finally slows.

Sherlock slides a glance at John, quietly amazed to be sharing this moment. His thoughts must be written on his face because John is looking at him, his mouth curving up.

“How long will you stay here?” John asks softly.

“I don’t know. Until it’s safe to go back to London. Could be days or weeks…” he doesn’t want to think about leaving. “Can you —?” He doesn’t know how to phrase the question, but John has anticipated it.

“I can’t leave,” he fills in. “I’m bound here.”

They fall silent, knowing their time is limited. John finally pushes himself up, lifting a corner of the covers. “You must be cold.”

Sherlock does a hasty cleanup, then maneuvers under the blankets, fitting himself against John, settling into a comfortable position.

“Does it hurt?” John asks, his hand on Sherlock’s sternum.

“It’s a bit sore,” he admits. “But you’re an excellent distraction.”

“You should lie still. Tell me about the world,” John murmurs, stroking Sherlock’s hair. “About London.”

“London is the same, just bigger,” Sherlock answers. “Still a cesspool of humanity. I love it.”

They talk about how the city has grown, and how well Sherlock knows every street and neighborhood because of his work. There’s a natural lull in the conversation, and Sherlock rubs his feet against John’s, his mind filling again with questions.

“What’s it been like… waiting all these years?”

John takes a long moment to answer. “I don’t know how to describe it. There’s no sense of time, nothing to measure. It’s restlessness… memories… loneliness… yearning…”

Sherlock looks up into John’s eyes. “I know about restlessness. And loneliness.” He buries his face in John’s neck, not wanting to think about the future, of losing each other again. “We’re cursed, aren’t we?”

John plays with a lock of Sherlock’s hair. “I’ve often thought that. But now I’m not sure. We’re together right now, despite everything.”

“I don’t trust optimists,” Sherlock grumbles.

“Yet you trust a ghost in your bed.” John tugs Sherlock’s hair playfully.

“Hmph,” Sherlock huffs, pretending to be offended. “Only because we’ve met before.”

“Rather intimately.”

Sherlock traces his fingers over John’s chest. “Do you think we’ll meet again?”

John lifts Sherlock’s wrist to his mouth, kissing his pulse. “Somewhere.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock moves around the house the following day as if in a dream, staring out the window at the frosty garden or stretched out on the sofa with an unopened book on his lap. He barely eats anything, his tea forgotten on the table and going cold.

Hannah purses her lips and assesses him. “You feeling alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a million miles away in your head somewhere.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Looks like daydreaming to me.”

Sherlock shoots her an annoyed frown.

“You’re like a moody teenager. Budge over.” Hannah shoves his feet aside and settles onto the end of the sofa, opening a magazine.

Dimmock enters the room and nods at them both. “Afternoon. Thought I’d check in to see if you’ve noticed anything else unusual.”

Hannah and Sherlock exchange a quick glance, confirming their pact not to mention anything.

“No, nothing unusual,” Hannah answers cheerfully. “Everything’s right as rain.”

Dimmock pulls out a pad and makes a note, then flips back a page. “Got the lab report back on the knife. No fingerprints except for Miss Cornish’s.” He flips the pad shut and sticks it in his back pocket. “So, I reckon our prankster got scared and took off. We’ll keep an eye open. Let me know if anything else is out of place.”

“Will do,” Hannah calls after him as he leaves. She turns back to Sherlock. “He’s trying so hard, poor thing.”

”Amateur,” Sherlock mutters.

“Has there been any more banging in your room?”

Sherlock quickly suppresses a smirk. “There were a few noises last night. Did you happen to hear anything?”

“Nothing much. Just a few creaks and groans. Probably the wind.”

Sherlock nods innocently, knowing full well what she really may have heard. Part of him wants to tell her about John, to let her in on his extraordinary secret, but caution wins out.

A cool stream of air brushes over his neck. He sits upright, sensing John in the room. He glances at Hannah to see if she notices, but she’s absorbed in an article, absently twisting a lock of hair around her finger. The cold mug of tea suddenly lifts from the table and floats toward the kitchen. He’s clearly meant to follow.

“I think I’ll make more tea,” Sherlock announces hastily, getting to his feet.

“Good idea,” Hannah answers without looking up.

The mug is moving quickly and he keeps pace into the kitchen, where the cup lands with a slosh in the sink.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock whispers. “Where are you?”

The answer comes in the form of a door swinging open. He moves toward it, then sees that it leads into a butler’s pantry. He steps inside the narrow room lined with cupboards and wooden shelves and drawers, the small window set high up in the wall letting in weak light. It smells of beeswax and silver polish, reminding him of his grandmother’s house. The door closes with a click.

Cool fingertips guide his mouth down to warm lips, invisible. He can feel the smile hovering over John’s mouth as he gathers him closer with fumbling arms.

“Trickster,” Sherlock teases, glad to steal a moment alone.

John shimmers into view, the dark wood visible through his pale silhouette. “I was tired of waiting for you.” His lips play across Sherlock’s cheekbones. “My sister and I used to sneak sweets from the kitchen and hide in here to gobble them up.”

“Is that what you’re going to do, gobble me up?”

John maneuvers Sherlock against a set of drawers, nuzzling just below his ear. “All of you.”

Every atom in Sherlock’s body alights with desire. How John is able to stir this fiery response in him is a mystery. Sex has never particularly interested him, but now, in this house — in the shower, in his bed, in this claustrophobic little room — John has tapped into a well of insatiable lust.

“Then hurry up. I’m supposed to be making tea,” Sherlock growls, clutching at John’s arse, his senses heightened with the risk of discovery. Dimmock might be patrolling the house or Hannah might come looking for him if he’s gone too long.

The flame is ignited, their mouths smearing wet and hot across lips and jaws and necks, fingers scrambling at braces and shirttails and flies, hands tugging down trousers and pants.

“Turn around,” John breathes, spinning Sherlock by the hips, their trousers sagging around their ankles.

Sherlock plants his palms against the top of the drawers, his face reflected back at him in a glass cupboard door. He can see John behind him, nestling his body closer.

The unmistakable hard length of John’s cock slides between his thighs, gliding along the sensitive flesh of his perineum.

“Do you like that?” John murmurs, pumping his hips slowly.

Sherlock bites his lip and nods, his eyes drawn to John’s face in the glass. John’s snakes a hand around Sherlock’s waist and circles his cock. Sherlock whimpers at the touch, rutting lightly into John’s fist.

“Do you want more?” John asks, his voice silky.

“Oh, God, yes,” Sherlock manages to stammer.

John shifts slightly, and Sherlock can tell he’s holding his cock in his hand, about to guide it between his arse cheeks. Sherlock welcomes the pressure and stretch, the sensation of John sinking into his body, merging into one being.

John holds Sherlock’s hips, his pelvis flexing in and out, the slow grind gradually building into a sharp, staccato rhythm. The glassware in the cupboard above Sherlock’s head rattles and chimes enthusiastically with every thrust, a sound that imprints itself on Sherlock’s memory.

Dust motes swirl around them, their breaths uneven. Sherlock can’t resist winding his hand around his cock, stroking himself, riding a wave of carnal bliss. A golden tension coils in his bollocks, a perfect thrust and stroke springing it free. He comes with a muffled groan, ribbons of white semen painting the dark wood.

He sags against the drawer top, still drifting. John withdraws, finishing himself off with a few quick strips of his hand, the head of his cock pressed against Sherlock’s arse. Warm come spills down his cleft, dripping onto the back of his thighs.

John drapes himself over Sherlock’s back, pressing lazy kisses along his spine. “We should clean you up,” he says eventually.

Sherlock is reluctant to move, but he finds a tea towel in a cupboard and wipes away all evidence of their tryst before zipping himself back into his trousers. “I should be getting back.”

“Of course.”

They exchange a long look, neither one wanting to part.

“Until tonight,” John finally says, dissipating along with the specks of dust dancing in the air.

Sherlock shakes off the feeling of emptiness blooming inside his chest, then strides into the kitchen where he disposes of the tea towel deep in the bin under peels and wrappers. He puts on the kettle and is soon back in the library with his steaming mug of tea. He eases into a well-stuffed chair and Hannah, still perched on the sofa, glances up.

“Did you go outside?” she asks.

“Er, no. Just got a bit… distracted.”

“Hm. You’ve got some color in your cheeks. Must be feeling better.”

“I am,” he answers truthfully.

“That’s good.” She looks back at her magazine.

Sherlock takes a sip of his tea, his body still buzzing from the rendezvous in the pantry. His mouth curves in a secret smile as he lowers his lips to the rim of his cup again.

 

*****************

John appears at midnight, slipping into bed with Sherlock. They murmur a few quiet words then curl into each other, simply being together. Sherlock is half asleep, but notices that John feels cooler to the touch than usual. He wonders about it, but loses track of his thoughts when John kisses him.

Later, Sherlock dreams of a foggy London street illuminated by gas lamps, the clopping of horse hooves on cobblestones, a glimpse of John’s profile as they ride together in a Hansom cab. When he wakes he’s disoriented, needing several minutes to stitch together where he is.

The next night it storms, the room snug against the cold rain lashing at the windows. The panes rattle and the eaves groan with gusts of wind.

They lie close together, quiet, listening to the rain. Sherlock maps the scar on John’s shoulder with his fingers. His skin feels cool again, his body more transparent. He glances up at John, concerned.

John lifts his hand and turns it in the light. “It’s starting,” he says softly. “Fading like an old photograph.”

Sherlock searches John’s face. His eyes are a paler shade of blue. “What’s happening?”

John’s trails his fingers over Sherlock’s cheek. “I’ve been roaming this house for a hundred years, feeding off regret and misery. But you gave me a second chance to make things right.” He cups Sherlock’s face, tilting it up, the fire light flickering over his features. “I want to tell you something that I should have said long ago. I love you.”

Sherlock tries to smile, torn between happiness and a sense of impending loss. “I know. I knew.” He takes a breath, unsure of time and tenses. “I should have said it too.”

They kiss deeply, passionately, finally breaking apart, resting their foreheads together, noses touching, breathing each other in.

“You’re going away, aren’t you?” Sherlock whispers, putting his fear into words.

John smooths Sherlock’s hair. “You have a long life ahead. You need to go live it. My life is done. Resolved.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“Neither of us can stay here,” John murmurs.

“John,” Sherlock says his name with desperation. He can’t lose him, not after all they’ve been through, not after a century of waiting. “John -- I love you --” Sherlock clings tighter, refusing to let him go.

John cradles him close, his lips against his temple. “We'll find each other again. We’ll go to all your favorite places in London, just like we promised.”

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, wanting to believe John’s words. He knew this couldn’t last, knew it was impossible in every way, but the thought of never seeing John again burns a hole in his heart. “Just hold me.” His voice breaks, his fingers grasping John’s shoulders.

The storm howls outside, and John strokes his hand up and down Sherlock’s back. Time slips by, and Sherlock dips in and out of consciousness, clawing to stay awake. “John,” he murmurs, fighting once more against the darkness. The blackness finally overtakes him and he sleeps, his fists slowly relaxing.

Sherlock doesn’t feel the covers being lifted up to his shoulders, the lingering touch on his forehead. He doesn’t hear John’s final whispered words.

_It’s time for me to go. Goodbye, my love._

When Sherlock wakes in the small hours of the morning, John is gone. He runs his hand over the cool depression in the sheets, the ticking of the clock too loud in the room, the emptiness oppressive.

He can’t fathom it, finding John at last, only to lose him so quickly. He sits up in bed, his chest heavy with grief. His gaze goes to the fireplace, then to the floor, his senses so dulled that it barely registers at first — the stain on the floor is gone, the wood unblemished.

He reaches into the drawer of the bedside table and takes out the diary and photographs, suddenly fearful that everything has vanished. Thankfully, the images and words remain, mementos to be treasured.

He touches John’s photo with one finger, hoping he is finally at peace. Maybe, somewhere, he will find his William again.

He slides the photos in between the pages of the diary. Maybe, someday, he’ll meet his John. Or maybe the few days in this house is all he’ll ever have with him. He wishes they had had more time. They never have enough time.

 

**********************

_Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz._

Sherlock searches for his phone with one hand, groggy and disoriented. He finally locates it and mumbles something into the speaker.

“Awake bright and early, as usual.” Mycroft’s voice drips with sarcasm.

Sherlock squints at the clock. 11:13 in the morning. He covers his eyes with his arm, his head aching. He tries to remember when he went back to sleep last night, but he draws a blank.

Mycroft is still talking. “Did you hear what I said?”

“No.”

Mycroft lets out an irritated huff. “I said,” he speaks slowly, as if to a dimwitted child, “I have good news.”

Sherlock sinks further under the covers, wanting to go back to sleep. “What is it?” he mutters.

“We caught him. The gunman.”

Sherlock doesn’t bother to open his eyes. “Where?”

“Found him lurking in the alley behind your flat near the bins.”

“Mrs. Hudson saw him first, didn’t she?” Sherlock deduces listlessly. “She’s very protective of her bins. She called the police.”

Mycroft clears his throat, clearly miffed at having to share the credit with Sherlock’s landlady. “She alerted the authorities, yes. But we sent in a crack team to apprehend him.”

“Who is it?” Sherlock tries to pull himself together and pay attention.

“Last name’s Moran. Nasty sort, thug with a record a mile long. You probably helped send him to jail at some point and he wanted to pay you back. But he claims he was hired to kill you.”

“By whom?”

“He insists he’s never met him in person. All transactions took place electronically. Says he goes by ‘The Professor.’”

Sherlock frowns. “Never heard of him.”

“There’s nothing with that name in the database, either.”

“He’s making it up, trying to pin the blame on someone else.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“So I can stop pretending to be dead and come back to London?”

“Oh yes, the rumors. Nearly forgot about that. I’ll have the Yard release a statement announcing your resurrection. Speaking of the dead, any more ghost problems?”

Sherlock winces. He’ll never be able to tell Mycroft about John. He wouldn’t understand. “No.”

“Good. I can send a car tomorrow to pick you up.”

“Send it this afternoon. I don’t want to stay here another night.”

“If that’s what you prefer.”

“It is.”

“Then be ready at 4.” Mycroft pauses. “Sherlock…” he halts again. “How are you?”

Sherlock can tell Mycroft is doing his best to navigate the unfamiliar territory of expressing concern. “Nurse Cornish says I’m recovering well.”

“You sound tired.”

Sherlock doesn’t know how to reply to that truthfully, so he makes an excuse. “It was storming most of the night. It kept me up.”

“I see. Perhaps you’ll sleep better once you’re back home.”

“I’m sure I will.” Sherlock grips the phone, feeling he ought to add something else. “Thank you, Mycroft. You’ve been very helpful throughout all this.”

“Yes, well... I’m pleased you’re on the mend.”

Sherlock can read through Mycroft’s stilted words and knows he’s flustered by Sherlock’s praise. For some reason, he misses his overbearing brother. “Maybe I’ll have dinner with you at your stodgy old club when I’m back.”

“You’ll have to wear a tie.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Then I’ll lend you one.”

“Your ties are atrocious.”

“At least I have the maturity to own them.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifts slightly. “Goodbye, Mycroft.”

Sherlock ends the call and stares at the ceiling. He doesn’t want to get up, but if he stays motionless, he’ll go mad thinking about John. Best to move. Get dressed, tell Hannah to get ready, pack up, drive away.

He forces himself upright, places his feet on the floor. He stands, straightening his shoulders. Push it down, lock it away, keep moving. London is waiting.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, take a deep breath. Now look at the tag that says "angst with a happy ending." I promise it will happen! For now, I'll pass you a few tissues and a nice, soothing cup of herbal tea. 
> 
> Now my confessions. In the beginning when I started to write this, I had the story all mapped out in my head and pretty much knew where it was going. And then the characters started taking over, demanding more scenes. And then the story became an roller coaster of emotions. And then what was supposed to be a quick, easy story became more complicated. But that's why I love/hate writing! (mostly love when it goes well)
> 
> And now onward >>>>


	9. Chapter 9

_** London, one year later ** _

Morning light slants through the sitting room windows in Sherlock’s flat, illuminating the hem of his blue dressing gown. He stares at the wall covered with newspaper clippings, maps, photographs, and receipts, looking for a pattern in a series of crimes, a hidden connection that’s still eluding him.

Frustrated, he rakes his fingers through his hair. Something else is occupying his mind, something he’s been trying to avoid for a very long time. He walks to a window and pulls back the curtain to look down at the street. A few dried leaves swirl in the autumn air, people hunching into their coats as they hurry by.

He sighs, allowing himself to acknowledge the reason for his melancholy. A year ago today John vanished from his life. The anniversary has been hovering at the edges of his mind for days, finally intruding, refusing to be ignored any longer.

He hasn’t pushed away thoughts of John out of bitterness or a desire to forget, but as a coping mechanism. The first few weeks back in London had been extremely difficult. Grieving and lonely, he had no one to confide in. Who would ever believe such a story? Hannah, maybe, but she’d immediately taken another job in Edinburgh caring for an ailing widow.

The dreams gradually ebbed, glimpses of John becoming rarer in his sleep. Bit by bit, he rebuilt his life, hardened his armor, steeled his heart to function in the world again. He sealed the photos and diary in a box, slipped into a dark suit, and threw himself back into work. But now he needs to remember.

Sherlock turns away from the window and goes to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. He carries the mug into his bedroom and opens the wardrobe doors, lifting a box from the top shelf.

Settling onto the bed, he opens the box and carefully removes the leatherbound diary, then sifts through the photographs. He gazes at John’s image, missing him. He pages through the diary, reading his favorite passages.

He eventually places the items back into the box and returns it to the shelf, then rummages a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lighter from his coat pocket. He allows himself an occasional smoke, even though he knows he shouldn’t. Better than the narcotic alternatives he used to rely on in his youth, although the temptation still lingers seductively in the darkest corners of his psyche.

He pushes open the bedroom window that leads to the fire escape, welcoming the cool air. He sits on the window sill and smokes, his mind back in the safe house, indulging in the handful of hours he shared with John.

He stubs out the cigarette in an old tin he keeps outside, then swings his legs back into the bedroom. He closes the window, then enters the bathroom, turning on the taps for a shower. Afterwards, he fills the sink to shave, wiping the steam off the mirror. For a brief moment he imagines he glimpses John standing behind him, his dark blue eyes meeting his own gaze.

No one is there.

He holds the razor in his hand, immobile, a lump forming in his throat. He blinks rapidly, trying not to fall apart. He inhales shakily, then exhales, clutching the sink. John wouldn’t want him to be like this, broken and adrift. He’s got to carry on, live his life, daring to hope that someday, somewhere…

He doesn’t finish the thought, knowing it’s too much to ask for. Instead, he straightens his back, lathers his face, and draws the razor through the foam, carving out his sharp features, the faint tremor in his hand almost imperceptible.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

_** London, spring ** _

Sherlock peers at the corpse of a man in his late 20s, scrutinizing the bruises covering the left side of the body. The marks are long, thin, and purple, crisscrossing the skin.

“Unusual, aren’t they?” Molly remarks, hovering nearby.

Sherlock had almost forgotten she was standing there. She had called him a few hours ago, inviting him to come to the morgue to have a look. She was probably breaking about a hundred different rules by allowing him in the morgue, but hardly anyone ever ventured to the basement of the hospital at this hour. As the lone pathologist on night duty, she could do as she pleased.

Sherlock takes out a small magnifying glass for a closer look at the marks, then stands up, glancing at Molly in her lab coat. “What do you think caused the bruises?”

She shrugs. “Electrical cord or rope, maybe.”

“Any drugs in his system?”

“Erm,” she picks up a clipboard. “Alcohol and amphetamines.”

“Where was the body found?”

“Hotel room. Not a very nice one.”

“No positive ID yet?”

“No, still unknown. Poor bloke.”

“Hm. If the police don’t come up with anything, which they probably won’t, let me know. I have a little time on my hands.”

“Okay.” Molly fiddles nervously with the clipboard. “Um, I was wondering if you’d want to get a coffee —” Molly is interrupted when the double doors swing open and someone walks in. It’s a doctor in a white coat, a stethoscope slung around his neck. Sherlock barely glances up, returning his attention to the corpse.

“Can I help you?” Molly asks, walking over to the visitor.

“I’m looking for Doctor Hooper.”

“That’s me.”

“I was waiting for some test results — last name Waters, 55-year-old female?”

“Oh, sure. They’re ready, I just haven’t had a chance to enter them into the system yet.”

“Yeah, sorry, I figured I’d come down to check. My shift just ended, and I was curious about the results.”

Sherlock stops listening, the conversation boring. He tunes them out, jostled back only when he hears Molly laughing. Oh god, even with his back turned, he can tell they’re flirting.

He slips away to hide in Molly’s small office, not wanting to be tortured by their tedious banter. He scrolls through his phone, feet propped up on Molly’s desk, until she pops her head in.

“We’re going to grab a coffee upstairs. Want to join us?”

“Can’t. Busy.”

“Oh. Well, he’s new here, doing locum work, so I figured I’d show him around.”

“You’re far too nice.”

She looks at him evenly. “You might want to try it someday.” She glares at his shoes. “And get your feet off my desk.”

Sherlock moves, a little stung by Molly’s rebuke.

She seems to feel bad about snapping at him and makes a peace offering. “You’re still looking for a flatmate, right? I’ll ask him if he needs a place to stay.”

Sherlock groans, hating the thought of sharing his flat, but he could use the money. He’s recently discovered that he’s done a crap job of managing his finances. “Who’d want to live with me?” he mutters.

“Someone equally desperate, I imagine,” Molly teases. “Don’t touch anything while I’m gone.”

Sherlock crosses his heart, then waits a few minutes until he’s sure they’ve left. He springs up from the chair and quickly gathers a few supplies from the cabinets, then takes the elevator up several floors to a vacant lab where he occasionally works. He stashes the supplies in another cabinet, then checks his watch. Just after midnight.

He pauses, looking around the darkened lab, wondering why he chose to pilfer glassware and chemicals from a morgue instead of socializing over coffee like a normal person. _Because you’re not normal,_ he says to himself. He’d rather commune with the dead than the living; it was just easier that way.

He looks around once more, deciding whether to go home or stay and run a few experiments. He’s not tired, so he opts for the latter. He shrugs off his suit jacket and rolls up his sleeves, then flicks on a lamp and begins setting up equipment.

About a half hour in, his phone pings with a text. He looks up from the microscope and glances at the screen. It’s from Molly.

_You still here?_

He types back a short reply: _In the lab upstairs_

_I have a potential flatmate for you. I’ll send him up :-)_

Sherlock frowns, not really wanting to be interrupted. He stands up, moving over a few feet to mix a solution, and soon hears a soft knock on the door. As it swings open he glances up at the silhouetted figure of Molly’s new doctor friend, his features indistinguishable in the dim light.

“Come in,” Sherlock says gruffly, concentrating on drawing out a precise measure of solution. His eyes are fixed on the pipette, but his ears pick up the distinct syncopation of a man with a slight limp, an intriguing detail he’d missed earlier. Sherlock shifts his gaze to the end of the bench where the doctor is standing, his stance firm as he glances around the lab.

When he turns to fully face him, Sherlock’s heart seems to stop. Stunned, his body freezes, a fat droplet of forgotten solution quivering at the end of the pipette. It can’t be… oh Christ…

He’s staring, the doctor calmly looking back at him with dark blue eyes.

“Are you Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock’s mouth is dry, his voice hoarse. “Yes.”

“Molly Hopper sent me up. Said you might have a flat share?”

“I do.”

The doctor takes a few steps closer. “I just moved back to London, so…” he trails off, gazing at Sherlock for several moments. He tilts his head, smiling crookedly. “Sorry, but do we — have we met?”

Warmth floods through Sherlock’s chest, releasing him from his stupor. He places the pipette back in the beaker, his hand shaking. He hopes he’s managing to hide the flurry of emotions churning inside of him. Despite his inner turmoil, a smile plays over his lips. “It’s possible.”

“I just… I swear you look familiar.” The doctor shakes his head, clearing it. “I haven’t introduced myself.” He extends a hand. “I’m—”

“John Watson,” Sherlock finishes for him, folding his hand around John’s. The contact with his skin sends a current through his body, his knees going weak. He struggles to keep his composure. Oh God, it’s John. His John, he’s sure of it.

John smiles again, a bit confused. “How’d you know my name?”

“Molly mentioned it in her text,” Sherlock lies. To settle his nerves, he falls into his habit of intense observation, scrutinizing the man in front of him. The lab coat and stethoscope are gone, revealing a plaid shirt in muted colors and well-worn jeans. John’s black coat is cut in a vaguely military style, leather patches at the shoulders. The watch on his wrist is ridiculously expensive. Probably a gift. There’s a faint tan line at his neck. Sherlock glances at his leg with the limp. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John looks taken aback. “I — did Molly mention that too?”

“No. Your haircut, posture, and clothing told me that. Which was it?”

“Afghanistan,” John replies cautiously.

“Shoulder wound?” Sherlock hazards a guess.

John blinks, clearly startled. He looks at Sherlock for a long moment. “Yes.”

“And your leg...?” Sherlock doesn’t wait for an answer, quickly realizing that the limp is completely psychosomatic. “Interesting.”

John shifts a bit, jutting out his jaw defensively. “What about the flat?”

Sherlock reins in his impulse to keep spinning out observations. “Right… It’s in an excellent location, affordable if we split the rent, and comes with a rather endearing landlady downstairs. You’d have your own bedroom. The kitchen, bathroom, and sitting room are shared.”

John nods, considering. “How much is the rent?”

Sherlock tells him the monthly figure, then seizes the moment. “Do you want to see it?”

“What, right now?”

Sherlock begins to clean up his workspace. “We should be able to get a cab just around the corner. It’s a short ride.”

John lets out an incredulous laugh. “Are you serious? We’ve only just met and now we’re going to look at your flat in the middle of the night?”

Sherlock continues to put things away, determining the best way to ensure that John won’t slip away. The man’s a soldier and a doctor, clearly an adrenaline junkie. He lifts his eyes, his voice low, half teasing, half daring. “Are you worried that I might be dangerous?”

John meets his gaze, accepting the challenge. He lets a few seconds go by. “Don’t know. You might be.”

They exchange a long look, testing each other, neither one willing to glance away first. Then Sherlock feels it, the charge and crackle in the air, the smolder of attraction. His lips curve up, a hint of a devilish smile.

“Fine, then,” John says, taking the bait. “Let’s go now.”

Sherlock finishes up and slips on his jacket, then leads the way through the door to the elevator. They don’t talk as they make their way outside, although Sherlock notices John keeps pace with his long stride despite his limp.

Sherlock hails a cab and they climb into the back. Sherlock finally speaks. “You’ve been abroad recently.”

John rests his hands on his knees. “Why do you think that?”

“Tan line at your neck and wrists.”

John glances at his hands. “You’re right. I was working in Greece. Before that, I was in Jordan, Syria, Pakistan… Been traveling around, volunteering with different medical aid organizations.”

“And now you’ve come back to London.”

“I got tired of living in tents and barracks. I’d like a proper bed.”

“Not so easy to find in the city on an army pension and locum work.”

John turns toward him. “What exactly do you do?”

“I’m a consulting detective.”

“A what?”

Sherlock explains his work yet again, steeling himself for a sarcastic or condescending remark.

“That’s amazing.”

Sherlock glances at John, not sure he heard him correctly.

“I mean, you must be good, if Scotland Yard comes to you for help,” John points out.

Sherlock demurs, surprised at the praise. He doesn’t have time to adequately respond because the cab comes to a stop in front of the flat. He pays the driver then pulls out his keys, suddenly nervous. He can’t recall how messy the kitchen and sitting room are, or the last time the spare bedroom was cleaned. What if he left something unpleasant out on the table, or if it smells like chemicals and cigarettes? What if John doesn’t take the room?

He’s got to pull himself together. He can’t fuck this up. He opens the door, switches on the foyer light. “It’s just upstairs,” he announces, then mounts the steps, conscious of every creak the wood makes.

When he reaches the landing, he swallows and hopes for the best. He enters the sitting room and flicks on the light. The room is relatively neat, the kitchen sink empty, the scent of lemon dish soap in the air. He breathes a sigh of relief. Mrs. Hudson, bless her heart, must have tidied up earlier.

John walks around, looking at the fireplace, the tall windows, the chairs, the books and odd trinkets, the kitchen. He gestures at the music stand and the violin resting in its open case. “Do you play?”

“Sometimes. It helps me think.”

He takes a few more steps around the room, then stops and stares at the wall covered with papers.

“It’s for a case,” Sherlock explains, feeling exposed.

John peers at several photographs of a gory crime scene. “The police let you have these?”

“I have a contact who provides them. The, uh, spare bedroom is just up those stairs,” Sherlock adds, hoping John isn’t put off by the grisly images.

John’s gaze continues to roam over the wall. “Fascinating,” he says, engrossed by all the details.

Pleasantly surprised by John’s reaction, Sherlock straightens the items littering his desk, not knowing what else to do while John examines the other photos.

“Right,” John eventually says, then looks at the stairs leading up to the next floor. “I’ll go have a look upstairs, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

As soon as John is out of earshot, Sherlock lets out a huff of air, releasing the tension trapped in his shoulders. Things seemed to be going well so far. But he can’t let himself leap too far ahead. He can’t assume anything yet.

In a short while John returns from his inspection.

“Well, what do you think?” Sherlock asks, trying to sound nonchalant.

John smooths his hand over the back of the plump reading chair in front of the fireplace. “It could do quite nicely.” He glances up at Sherlock. “And where’s your bedroom?”

Caught off guard, Sherlock feels heat blooming up his neck to his cheeks. The mere mention of his bedroom brings back a rush of memories, of all the things he and John did in bed at the safe house, of all the things he and this John could do… He points down the short hallway at the closed door. “Loo’s on the left,” he adds like an idiot.

John dutifully walks over to briefly peer into the bathroom. “That’s quite a door,” he remarks. “It’s a bit… not opaque.”

“I, uh,” Sherlock is distracted again, imagining John’s naked silhouette moving behind the door. “That could be fixed.”

John shrugs. “I’m sure it’s fine,” he says, returning to the sitting room, his limp more noticeable. He rubs his thigh, gritting his teeth. “Do you mind if I have a seat? My damn leg...”

“Please,” Sherlock waves his hand at the overstuffed chair.

John eases himself onto the cushion and extends his leg, massaging it. “What’s the landlady like?”

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock takes a seat across from John. “She’ll share every uncensored thought and opinion that crosses her mind, insult you with brutal honesty one minute then mother you the next, and has a rather colorful past. Don’t make the mistake of underestimating her.”

John looks impressed. “I’ll make a note of that.” His gaze goes to the case wall. “And your consulting detective business… you get all your cases through Scotland Yard?”

“No, most are private clients. I have a website. People contact me, and I decide whether or not I’ll take their case. I’ll often meet with potential clients right here.”

“They’re not all murderers, I assume?”

“Sadly, no. Most cases are suspected affairs, stolen valuables, missing persons… an occasional kidnapping…” He glances up. “Even a haunting now and then.”

“Really?” John smiles but doesn’t scoff at the idea. “And people — they just… sit here and tell you about their problems instead of going to the police?”

“The police don’t listen. Most of them are idiots.” Sherlock settles back into his chair. “Would that bother you, having clients in and out?”

John shakes his head. “Sounds interesting, actually.” He hesitates, rubbing his chin for a moment. “Any other visitors coming and going that I should be aware of?”

Sherlock gives him a quizzical look.

“A girlfriend?” John prompts.

Sherlock suppresses a snort. “Not exactly my area.”

“Oh. Boyfriend, then?”

Sherlock levels his gaze at John. “No.”

“Right. Good, then. You’re unattached, like me.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, intrigued and encouraged by John’s particular choice of words. The moment is interrupted by his phone vibrating in his breast pocket. He draws it out and jolt of adrenaline spikes up his spine when he recognizes DI Lestrade’s number.

“Excuse me,” he says to John, then stands up and takes a few steps away to answer the call. He soon learns that Lestrade is at the scene of another murder with striking similarities to the current case sprawled across his wall. Sherlock listens, interjecting with curt questions, pacing the rug, his excitement growing.

“I’ll be right there. Don’t let Anderson touch anything. He always mucks it up.” Sherlock tucks the phone back into his jacket and quickly crosses over to the door, snagging his long coat off the hook. He suddenly remembers that John is still sitting in the chair, watching him with curiosity.

He stops in his tracks, torn between wooing John to move in and rushing off to the crime scene. Of course he must choose John. Or maybe he can do both.

“You’re a doctor,” he states, his voice seductively rich. “You’ve seen war, injuries, death.”

John eyes him cautiously. “Of course. I’ve seen far too much of it.”

“Ever see a murder investigation in action?”

John leans forward in his chair. “No, I haven’t.”

“Want to see one now?”

A muscle in John’s jaw twitches.

Sherlock adds one more incentive. “Your medical expertise could prove useful.”

“Alright,” John agrees, pushing himself out of the chair. “I don’t have a shift tomorrow.”

Sherlock smiles warmly and turns up his coat collar, thrilled at how well the night is unfolding. He holds the door open for John. “Ready?”

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

The next few hours pass in a blur of strobing blue lights, yellow police tape, a corpse in a black trench coat and Louboutin stilettos, a mad dash across the city pursuing a clue that leads to a loading dock and crates filled with cheap ceramic elephant figurines. Sherlock pockets one to analyze later, then drags John to a several unsavory locations to slip cash and a folded note into the hands of numerous homeless people.

“And now we wait,” Sherlock says with satisfaction, leading John down a narrow alley toward a main road. He looks over at John, whose expression has been constantly shifting between awe and befuddlement.

“Wait for what?” John asks, dodging a puddle.

“For information.” Sherlock comes to a stop, clapping his hands together. “Hungry?”

It takes John a moment to process the sudden change in topic. “Sure, yeah.”

“There’s a fantastic Chinese place not far from here. Open all night.”

They sit in a booth upholstered in burgundy faux leather, discussing the night’s events over savory noodles and crisp vegetables and smoky tea. John is relaxed, smiling more, the conversation turning personal as a single candle throws shadows onto the red tablecloth.

Sherlock rests his chin on his steepled fingers. “How’s your leg?” he asks, predicting John’s answer.

John pauses, his eyes widening in surprise. “It’s good. Not bothering me at all.”

Sherlock smiles with satisfaction, pouring himself more tea. “Where are you staying?”

“A bedsit. It’s tiny and depressing, but it’s the only thing I could afford in the city. Not very inspiring for writing.”

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow and John bites his bottom lip, looking as if he wished he hadn’t said the last part. “I’m supposed to keep a journal,” he admits. “My therapist thinks it’ll help.” He glances up at Sherlock. “Apparently I have some issues, but you probably already deduced that.”

PTSD, Sherlock thinks to himself, trust issues, rough family life. “Everybody has issues,” he replies quietly.

John shrugs, picking at his food. “I’ve learned that you can’t outrun them, no matter how many countries you move to.”

“But London drew you back.”

John takes a sip of tea, reflecting. “When I was overseas, I was surprised by how much I missed the city. I lived here when I trained at St. Bart’s, and I came back again when I was first shipped home from Afghanistan. Funny how you keep returning to the same things over and over.”

Sherlock holds John’s gaze. “Maybe you’re searching for something.”

John’s mouth curves up, his fingers laced around his cup. “Maybe.”

Their feet are close beneath the table, their knees almost touching, a current passing between them. John’s blue eyes are inky in this light, stubble shadowing his jaw. Sherlock could gaze at him for hours, amazed that he’s real and within arm’s reach.

Sherlock’s phone rings, ruining the moment, and he closes his eyes briefly in frustration. He snatches it from his inner pocket.

“What?” he snaps. “I’m working. … Yes, of course it’s a case. What’s so urgent? … Oh, God, tell her no. … Absolutely not — I’m not doing that again. … I’m not going, Christmas was enough. …. Fine, fine — I’ll call her. ”

Sherlock scowls as he ends the call. “Sorry,” he mutters. “That was my annoying brother.”

“Everything alright?”

“Just relaying orders from my imperious mother.”

“That reminds me,” John says, “I should check my messages. I have a difficult sister. She’s a disaster right now. Just went through a bad breakup.” He frowns, digging into his pockets, worry crossing his face. “I can’t find my phone.”

Sherlock thinks back through their steps, calculating where John might have lost it. “We should look back at the flat.”

John agrees, still distracted. Sherlock tosses a few bills onto the table and they leave, taking yet another cab back to Baker Street. The streets are quiet, a light drizzle falling. Once they arrive, John trots up the steps close behind Sherlock, following him into the sitting room.

John casts his gaze around while Sherlock goes directly to the chair by the fireplace. Within seconds, he produces the missing phone from between the cushions.

“Here we are. Must have slipped out of your pocket when you sat down.”

“Thanks,” John says with relief. As he reaches for his phone their fingers brush, sending a shiver up Sherlock’s arm.

John checks his messages.Seeming satisfied that all is well, he curls his phone into his palm.

“So,” Sherlock starts hesitantly, “what should I tell Mrs. Hudson about the room?”

John breaks into a grin. “That I’ll take it. It’s perfect, all of it.” His gaze lingers on Sherlock, then he runs his hand over the back of his neck, as if embarrassed by his enthusiasm.

“Good, I’m glad.” Although Sherlock’s voice is calm, inside he’s leaping with joy. “We should exchange numbers so I can reach you.”

They fumble through digits and contact lists, then slide into an awkward silence, the evening suddenly drawing to an end.

“It’s late,” John finally says. “I should be going.”

Sherlock doesn’t want him to leave, but doesn’t know how to postpone his departure. “I’ll walk you out.”

They descend the stairs to the foyer, dark but for a faint cast of yellow light from the street lamps outside.

John turns to Sherlock. “Thanks for — well, for the best night I’ve had in a long time.”

Sherlock smiles, wishing he could touch John, hold him close, tell him the depth of secrets that he knows. “My pleasure.”

They exchange a long look, ending only when John reluctantly lowers his gaze away. He turns the knob of the heavy black door and pulls it open, about to leave.

“Oh.” He stands motionless in the doorway, looking out at the street. The light drizzle has become a cold downpour.

They both stare at the rain, the street deserted, no cab in sight, no umbrella at hand.

“You could,” Sherlock starts, his voice strangely thin, “you could stay here.”

John looks up at him, vulnerability and desire flickering across his face. “I think I should.”

Sherlock pushes the door shut, reducing the sound of the rain to a dull hiss in the background.

They stand facing each other, vibrating with unspoken tension. Sherlock’s pulse races, his eyes searching John’s face, trying to read him, trying to _tell_ him how very, very much he wants him in every possible way.

John breaks the impasse first, reaching up to cup his hand behind Sherlock’s head, pulling him closer, placing a soft kiss against his lips. A million sensations flood Sherlock’s system, overriding his brain. John’s mouth is warm, vibrant, the kiss stealing the breath from his lungs. He inhales shallowly, trembling a little. This is the moment he’s been living for, a second chance with John — this John who is gruff and flirtatious, complex and damaged and very much alive, his heart beating fiercely under his ribs.

Sherlock grasps John’s arms, needing to feel the reality of his muscles and bones, a gesture that John mistakes as a rebuff.

John backs away, gasping out an apology. “I’m sorry — I shouldn’t have done that.”

“I want you to,” Sherlock growls, sweeping John closer, lowering his mouth to John’s. He kisses him hard, telegraphing the intensity of his desire. John responds, digging his fingers into Sherlock’s back, hungrily returning the kiss.

Sherlock breathes in John’s scent of leather and skin-warmed cologne, memorizing the exact notes. His runs his hands down John’s back, but his coat is heavy, a barrier. Sherlock starts pushing it off his shoulders and John helps, wriggling his arms free from the sleeves.

The coat slumps to the floor and they stumble backwards, Sherlock pressing John against the wall with his hips. It’s thrilling, almost illicit, kissing and groping in the dark entranceway, having met just hours ago. Yet they’ve known each other far longer, part of a pattern that has been repeating for centuries, another link in a long chain of encounters.

He kisses John again, more slowly this time, their tongues sliding alongside, teasing, flicking, tempting. John’s hands skim from Sherlock’s back to his hips, his fingers gradually sliding down to grip his arse, grinding him against his thighs. Sherlock can feel John’s erection through his jeans, inflaming his own arousal.

“Maybe we should go upstairs,” John whispers, trailing his suggestion up the length of Sherlock’s neck.

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, his voice husky.

John hastily grabs his coat and they stagger up the stairs, stopping every few steps for messy kisses and wandering hands, finally making it to the sitting room. Sherlock takes John’s coat and carelessly tosses it into a corner of the sofa, nuzzling behind John’s ear.

“I’d like to see your bedroom,” John murmurs.

The less-than-subtle hint sends a small shock through Sherlock’s system. He never imagined it would all happen so quickly, but he takes John by the hand, leading him down the short hallway.

The room is cool and dim, his private haven. As they stand by the bed, Sherlock realizes he’s never invited anyone to this bedroom before. Apart from the few days with John at the safe house, he’s led a solitary and celibate life the past several years.

“So this is you,” John says softly, looking around, taking in the personal details — the periodic table and antique bee print hung on the wall, the expensive white sheets, the bespoke shoes, the scientific books and journals stacked by the bed, the childhood photo of him playing on the beach with Mycroft.

Suddenly Sherlock sees himself through John’s eyes, mortified at what a sentimental, vain, and nerdy creature he must appear to be.

John looks back at Sherlock, pulling him against him, brushing his lips across Sherlock’s. “I like it.”

Relief washes over Sherlock, then words spill out.

“I don’t ever do this — have anyone here —” Sherlock cautions John, wanting him to know. “It’s been… a long time.”

John mouth curves into a smile. “I’m an exception?”

“You are. Very much so,” Sherlock answers, kissing his way along John’s jawline.

“Then I feel lucky.” John slides his fingers into Sherlock’s curls. “Extremely —” he shudders when Sherlock sucks a sensitive spot on his neck, “fucking — lucky.”

The heat in the room builds as they continue to explore and taste and touch, slowly prying off their shoes and unbuttoning shirts. Sherlock slides his hands up John’s chest, the dark hair coarse against his fingers. He pushes the shirt from John’s shoulders, tugging it off, wanting to see his bare skin.

At last he exposes the scar on John’s left shoulder and he pauses, struck for a moment by an echo from the past. He gently touches the puckered skin, then sinks to the bed, pulling John after him. He places his lips over the scar, grateful that the injury didn’t steal John away from him this time.

John suddenly cups Sherlock’s face, kissing him with a rush of emotion. His fingers trail down Sherlock’s neck to his sternum, nudging aside his white shirt, slipping it from his shoulders.

Sherlock’s almost forgotten about his own scar until John takes in a sharp breath. “My God, what happened?” John’s fingertips lay atop the bullet wound, shock written on his face.

“Someone tried to end my career.” Sherlock attempts to keep his voice light.

John looks up at him, his eyes full of concern. “Who did this?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Sherlock admits. “The police made an arrest, but it may have been a job for hire.”

John is somber as he traces the scar. “A centimeter more to the right and…” he doesn’t finish, but Sherlock knows what he’s thinking. His heart, shredded.

John says nothing more, simply leaning in to find Sherlock’s mouth, enveloping him in warmth and caresses. Their hands work at belts and flies, shimmying off jeans and trousers, socks and pants.

At last they’re fully naked, stretched out on their sides, palms circling each other’s cocks. Sherlock marvels at the girth in his hand, the hot skin and veins pulsing under his touch, the beads of slippery precome under his thumb.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” John murmurs, kissing Sherlock’s throat.

Sherlock’s concentration wavers, losing himself in what John is doing with his deft fingers. Wanting to amplify the sensation, Sherlock rouses himself enough to fling an arm out to the bedside table, rummaging in the drawer until he finds the bottle of lube he keeps for his own private stress-relief sessions.

The first drops of glistening liquid are cold, soon warming under the friction of their hands. John shifts his weight, guiding Sherlock onto his back. He climbs on top, straddling Sherlock’s hips, bracketing his shoulders with his hands. He slowly rocks his pelvis, dragging his heavy cock and balls back and forth over the length of Sherlock’s thick shaft.

Sherlock clutches at John’s back, moving his hips, drawing out the motion of their intimate counterpoint. John watches him, his eyes dark, absorbing Sherlock’s reactions, responding to his cues.

Sherlock groans deep in his throat and John lowers his head, licking his way into his pliant mouth. A moan slips from John’s lips as he increases the rhythm, their cocks rigid and leaking. Sherlock is on the edge, so close, needing an intensity that frotting can’t quite deliver.

He works his hand between their pelvises and John seems to understand, lifting his hips slightly. Sherlock grasps their cocks in his hand, stroking them both until all boundaries are blurred — John fucking into his fist, cock fucking cock, tongues fucking mouths, fingers gripping flesh, hot breaths panting, sheets bunching, the universe shrinking to their rutting, animal bodies.

Sherlock can’t tell if he or John comes first, waves of intense pleasure drowning him, gushes of sticky warmth spilling onto his belly, sounds that might or might not be coming from his mouth. His body goes limp, utterly drained, and John drapes over him, his weight crushing him into the bed springs.

John finally rolls to the side with a sated sigh, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Christ, your hand is big,” he says drowsily, but with admiration.

Sherlock turns to press his nose into John’s temple. “So’s your dick,” he mumbles.

“I’ve had no complaints,” John laughs. He faces Sherlock, a smile playing over his face. He brushes a stray curl from Sherlock’s forehead, then kisses him again.

He draws back and they gaze at each other, drifting in the afterglow.

“I still feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before,” John murmurs, his voice sleepy.

Sherlock smiles, not denying it. Maybe someday he’ll have the chance to tell John the story, to show him the diary and photographs. But for now he drinks in every detail of John’s face, watching him fade into sleep, his lashes dark against his cheek, listening to his breath even out to a slow and steady cadence.

A calm joy fills Sherlock, knowing that the universe has come full circle, a promise finally fulfilled. They’ve met again in London, and they’ll go to all his favorite places — obscure book stores and restaurants, forgotten tunnels and ancient catacombs, bridges and clock towers and graveyards. Above all, they’ll solve cases and come home together, drink tea and bicker and read by the fire, share the same bed and make love and laze away entire days tangled in each other’s arms.

This time, Sherlock vows, this time they will have decades together instead of weeks or months. His happiness brims over as he lightly places his lips on John’s forehead.

“John Watson,” he whispers for all of eternity to hear. “My John.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh. True love will always find a way....   
> And I got to write the gay!pilot ending that I wanted!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who followed along and waited patiently for the ending! I really do appreciate the support, encouragement, and comments from readers like you. I write out of love for the characters, for storytelling, and for the amazing community that comes with fandom. Hugs to you all!


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